


Morning Day Night

by D12fan



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Conversations, M/M, Morning After, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D12fan/pseuds/D12fan
Summary: If you wake up naked in bed with your best friend, it doesn't mean...Not necessarily.No, no, no...NO!!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The obvious disclaimer, I believe, should be that it’s all fiction - real names are used, but personalities, circumstances and motivations are invented. No offence was meant.  
> Attempts at humor are often just embarrassing, but you can’t get better, if you don’t try. I hope someone somewhere will have a nice couple of minutes reading this.  
> Thank you in advance – your time is the best reward, as well as your criticism.

_The truth will set you free,_

_but first it will piss you off._

−Gloria Steinem

 

 

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, really doesn’t want to. It’s tough, when you are more than a decade away from such shenanigans, to suspect that an unfamiliar ceiling will look back at you and frown. Hotels don’t count - you’ve seen one of those, you know them all, no surprises here. And right now some sixth hangover sense suggests that he is not in a hotel.

Et voila – he is not.

Armie stares at wooden panels splashed with the morning light and inhales deeply. No, definitely not a hotel – there, even under all the booze, you can still catch the waft of antiseptic and air fresheners, and here it’s all booze. And dust. And warmth.

Armie, a thoroughly domesticated animal, can divide smells by temperature. His office smells cold. His children’s rooms – warm, very warm, soothingly so. His bedroom…

Fuck, he is hangover. One of those mornings when even your eyelids hurt a bit, and everything is heavy and slow, especially your memories, when turning to see whose hand it is on your chest is a grand adventure in itself.

...

Hand?

He turns too quickly, fighting the dizziness, and finds familiar shiny curls drowning in a silky pillow.

Ok, wow, ok. Well, that wasn’t so bad.

There are worse discoveries. It could be a woman, for example. A strange woman. Or – if his bad luck is on the move – someone he knew. But Timmy, Timmy is fine. Explicable. Understandable.

He lazily starts to reconstruct it all - they met last night, there was a club, Blitz or Glitz or something, and there was bourbon, a lot of it. He swallows – yeah, wine was apparently there, too, because he recognizes the special sourness of it in his mouth.

Did they start with wine? In the club?

Jesus, he hasn’t been this wasted in years, it seems. Not to the point where he actually had to ask: wait, what city is it?

Alright, doesn’t matter, like riding a bicycle - you get up, splash your face with cold water, find coffee, find aspirin, dress at some point, throw up if necessary. Routine. Though, again, it’s been years since he had to start from someone else’s bed - usually, miraculously, it’s his own, because Nick, or Liz, or someone kept their head and brought him back to the place where this morning hell could be enjoyed in private.

The worst part, he muses, is that Tim, 22-year-old bastard that he is, will wake up fresh as a rose, and Armie couldn’t do it even when he was _himself_ 22, which just shows you that there is no such thing as equal distribution of talents – Tim got it all, even drinking smoothly.

Given his state, to see a pile of weed on the coffee table in the living room doesn’t surprise him at all - because of course they smoked too, because bourbon and wine and god knows what else wasn’t enough yesterday and because a responsible adult like him, father of two children, doesn’t do anything half-assed. No, when Armie decides to let go, even the neighbors soon catch up on the news.

So, yes, party was on, apparently, and if it is anywhere before noon now, you could say that Mr. Hammer has learned some discipline over the years.

Is it, though? He glances at the clock on the wall - five to. Well, still an achievement. Still.

He lazily scratches his balls, trying to remember which way is the bathroom, and… And freezes. His eyes for some reason return to the clock, then back to the grass on the table, then carefully, reluctantly to his balls.

In his hand.

Behold, Armie Hammer in the middle of his best friend’s  living room literally with his dick in his hand. Meaning, naked. Meaning…

What does it mean?

Armie slowly turns back to the bed. First explanations are usually wrong, they say. First thing that comes to mind is a cliché.

Fuck, it better be, because first thing that comes to Armie’s mind is wrong and a cliché, and fuck-my-life, drown-me-in-the-bath-of-acid disaster.

“No,” he says to no one in particular, but manages to sound very sure. “No,” he shakes his head, in case one denial was not enough.

No, if you wake up naked in bed with your best friend after a night of drinking, it doesn’t mean what everyone would probably think it means.

Like, when they started finding those crop circles in the field, everyone thought aliens, but no, just two goofs fooling around. See? Everything has an explanation.

So, let’s go again, if you wake up naked in bed with your best friend after a night of drinking, it means… you had a good time. You had a good time drinking, that is. And at some point you had enough and you went to bed, and your underwear was… lost somewhere. Discarded. Yes, you just casually took it off, because why not? And said best friend probably did too, because again, why not? It’s his apartment anyway, his bed, he is probably used to sleeping naked. You are too. But in your bed.

So?..

So, maybe aliens were involved, after all.

With anyone else Armie wouldn’t even think twice. But with Tim, for reasons better left out… With Tim… Bile starts rising in his throat.

With anyone else, he wouldn’t even entertain what he is entertaining during his sprint to the bathroom. He would never even think… Not once… But it’s Tim and…

And he dives right in, spasms contorting his body, hands squeezing the cold porcelain, chest so full of pain, that it seems his ribs will start cracking.

Alright, alright… He needs a minute, just a minute, and the answer, innocent and reasonable one, will reveal itself to him.

Because, honestly, he wouldn’t. No way in hell. It’s Tim and he would have never fucked Tim drunk.

Please, some sunny voice suggests, underline the key word here - never, fucked, or drunk?

Tricky, this.

He is face down in the toilet again.

Fuck, what a mess. What a fucking mess on this bright and gentle morning.

Ok, at least Tim is still asleep, and Armie has time to clear his head, and when he clears his head, he will probably remember what happened, and when he remembers what happened, he will wake up Timmy and tell him… something, and they will both laugh at his crazy theories. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

No, maybe Armie won’t tell him. Maybe he will quietly pick up his clothes, get the fuck out of here, go back to his hotel, lock himself up in the closet (closet?) and scream.

Yes, maybe that’s a better plan. More mature. Scream in the closet. Yes.

He picks himself up slowly and goes back to the bedroom – the bed is still there, Tim is still there, life still hurts.

Look, maybe he passed out on the couch yesterday and then sleepwalked to the bed? Force of habit. Sleep-undressed, while he was at it, too? Eh?

Maybe Tim has his jeans on.

Maybe it’s just shampoo on the nightstand.

Maybe he is overreacting.

Maybe…

Maybe he needs to call Luca. Like, right the fuck now.

It’s surprising how shock clears your mind and sobers you up – he suddenly knows exactly where his pants are (by the bedroom door, why?) and that his phone is in the front left pocket, and that the combination is the day they started filming in Crema, and that Luca will pick up no matter what, and also that he should probably return to the bathroom so that Tim doesn’t wake up.

Luca will save him, surely. Luca is an adult.

And if Luca doesn’t pick up, he will think of something else. Like emigration. Something like that.

 

<> 

There is no response at first. Armie calls again and waits, patiently beating his head against the wall. He has no idea where the man is, what time of day is there, and he doesn’t give a hoot.

“Luca, thank God!” he rushes with a pleasant note of hysteria, when the call is finally through. “I thought you’d never fucking answer.”

“Six times I didn’t,” Luca replies drily. “What is going on?”

“You up?”

“I’m in London. It’s about 6 pm.”

“So you up?”

“Now you are scaring me, ragazzo. What is it? What is happening?”

“Luca, I did something…” Armie swallows. “I don’t know what… I don’t know what I did. Oh, Luca, it’s awful.”

“What? A face tattoo?”

“God, I wish. I think… Luca, it’s worse. It’s hell.”

“Caro, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Two million euros at stake. What did you do? Be quick, please. Si?”

It takes insane amount of courage for Armie to form the next shaky sentence: “Tim… I think… I don’t know… Do you think I would… that I would… we were drunk, you know… but do you think I would… um, sleep with Tim?”

Luca is quiet for a second and then he just… snorts.

“Luca? I just… if you say yes, I’ll kill myself, I swear to Christ, I’ll bash my head on this… these tiles!”

“So you are in the toilet too?” he hears in return

“What?”

“Ah, I am in this… It’s incredible, this mosaic they used for their urinals is just exquisite,” Luca says contemplatively. “So English, food is shit, but toilets are a piece of art.”

“I’m in the bathroom, yes.”

“Yes, bathroom. Why do you call it bathroom, when it’s a toilet? Could never understand it.”

“You’re not helping!” Armie exclaims impatiently.

“Ok, ok, so you’ve fucked…”

“God…”

“…and now you are hiding in the toilet… bathtub, exploding all over the place and threatening suicide?”

“Nice work, Sherlock,” Armie mumbles.

“And Tim? Still sleeping peacefully, while you are calling me with this foolishness? Now, Armie, you are a delight, tesoro, you are a… a prize.”

“Luca, I feel really bad, like, really bad right now, and I am panicking, ok? I don’t know what to think. I need you to tell me what to think. Like you do. When I panic. Like you did,” Armie takes a breath. “Because, look, you just tell me, just be honest and serious and shit, tell me… I would never do such a thing, right? I… it’s all my imagination, right? I just… tell me I wouldn’t fucking do it!”

Luca sighs and is silent.

“Why?” he asks finally

“Why what?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“What?”

Luca waits. Luca is from a nation that survived caesars and popes and Berlusconi, his reserves of patience are bottomless.

“Luca, I couldn’t!” Armie explodes indignantly. “I swear to you I wouldn’t. Not sober. And not drunk. Never. I mean… you know. You _know_! Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I’m listening. And counting the seconds. Armie, two million euros. Quick.”

“Yes. Quick. Right. Luca…”

“Ok, there is one easy way to solve this mystery. Without suicide.”

“I’m all ears”

“Check.”

“Check what?” Armie frowns and can almost hear Luca rolling his eyes.

“Start by sitting on some hard… surface.”

“Yes, ok…” then Armie pauses suspiciously, “Why?

“Madonna!”

“I think I am sick again…”

“No time!” Italian tells him briskly.

“You mean?.. you think… I didn’t even…”

“No? And why not? No, don’t answer, you’ll say something very silly, and I’m not in the mood. Though it’s all very amusing, to be honest,” Luca says and waits. “So?”

“I want to die,” Armie croaks.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. There are a lot of creams, it’s just a slight sore. Just muscles… Will heal. You’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t…” Armie shakes his head. “I think, I think it’s the way it was yesterday…”

“Your asshole, you mean?”

“Jesus… but, yes, my ass, it’s… I think it’s fine”

“Don’t be so modest, you’ve been very blessed. I still regret that we abandoned that poster Camila designed at first, it was straight to the point. Such a waste.”

“You know, I’m glad I called you. You calm me down, in spite of everything you say,” Armie smiles for the first time this morning.

“Thank you, caro. And I can sympathize, first times are stressful.”

“No, look, I think I freaked out over nothing. It’s just, well, you never know…”

“Indeed.”

“Ok, that didn’t sound right. What I mean is, I know nothing could have happened. It’s Tim, right?”

“Indeed.”

“And I would never… because I never… and you know it…”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what? What are you implying?”

Because, really, what?

“I’m applying common sense mostly. Though with you, tesoro, it doesn’t always work.”

“Implying. I said, implying. It is…”

“Oh, I missed it. Transatlantic calls, probably. Well, if the problem is solved, then go make some coffee, wake up our friend and ask how _he_ is feeling…”

“No!”

“No?”

“No,” Armie repeats. “What would he think? Like, if I wake him up and tell him that… if I ask him… I mean, nothing happened, obviously, but if… he’ll be devastated, Luca.”

“I doubt it very much.”

“Oh, of course, right, it will cheer him up immensely!” Armie scoffs. “Look, Timmy, I think I accidentally fucked you in the ass last night. Want some eggs for breakfast?”

“If you behave like a cabron, yes, he’ll be sad, but he is used to you, so… Anyway, eggs after love? That’s mean. Civilized people treat whores better.”

“Tim is not a whore!”

“No, he is not, so why do you discuss fucking him with strangers?”

“You’re not a stranger, you know him better than me!”

“Not enough to guess if he was deflowered last night,” Luca replies reasonably

“He is not a virgin, come on!”

“By now, probably not.”

“You are fucking with me, right? Like always. This might be the turning point of my life, and you are fucking with me!”

“Maybe, but you do feel better, I hear it. More awake, feisty. Still dimwitted.”

“Your use of English, it really hurts sometimes.”

“That’s your growing pains. I love you dearly. In my culture we love all our children equally, even… even children like you. Special.”

“I am hanging up.”

“Go face your demon, caro. And, if you didn’t already, ask yourself why first of all you thought what you thought. Si?”

“It wasn…”

But he doesn’t have a chance to finish, because Luca hangs up.

 

<> 

Armie really doesn’t want to leave this space. You can survive for three weeks without food, and he will gladly spend three following weeks in this bathroom. _In the toilet._ His life careened that way for years anyhow, so why not set up camp at Tim’s?

If only.

No, Luca is right, time to face the music, and if there is no applause afterwards, if he lands on his face, then it will return to the way it was before - before Tim, before CMBYN, before all the new promises he has broken again. Normal, predictable, safe.

He will be again just Armie Hammer, that rich asshole, who could never overcome his name. The one who tried, but always finished third or tenth. The one who had no right to complain, because only a rich asshole would complain while having all that he had.

Like it used to be.

What it was that Andre wrote? Only by changing they stay the same. In other words, no matter how much shit you’ll shovel, in the end it’s the same shit.

There are options, though.

If he quietly leaves right now, returns to LA and tries to laugh it off later, he loses Tim.

If he goes there, wakes up Tim and tells him the truth, then he loses him.

If he wakes up Tim, talks to him and…

Anyway, in the end he probably loses Tim, and he certainly loses Liz.

Yes, there are options.

Christ, why did he board that plane yesterday and flew to New York? Why the fuck can’t he control his drinking? Why didn’t he go to Nick with his tantrums? Nick would be fine with it! Nick wouldn’t care!

Well, maybe that’s why.

Because you’ve always wanted to be special, Hammer, to get attention, and no one ever could compete with Tim at being attentive, interested, engaged, listen to you as if he is captivated by every stupidest, most trivial thing that you say. No one is so generous with his time and emotions, so forgiving and understanding, and, and, and…

Because no one has admired you for a long time, if ever. Not Liz, not your parents, not your fans. And your children – just give them time.

Ok, stop it, he tells himself. He knows the signs by now, that’s how his “moods” start usually. You’re a loser, you’re useless, you’re a has-been, you’re old, and talentless, and vain, and so on, and so on, until he is sitting by the pool at 4am - alone, bottle in hand, reciting Bukowski.

Stop it.

Not the time.

Time to grow up. To be responsible. To change…

_…your name, credit card, phone number and citizenship!_

Or do something mature.

He is standing at the foot of the bed, looks at sleeping Tim and can’t move a muscle.

So, Hammer, speak or die?

He turns to the window. It looks inviting. Die, die, die.

No, get a grip, put some pants on, first. Stay classy. Though it’s New York, few things can make a splash here - banzaying from a window naked won’t even get to local cable. Not until they identify him, at least.

But if he aims face first…

Stop it.

Pants. Put on some pants. Don’t forget your underwear. God, he is honestly too old for this. 

And, yeah, there lie Tim’s jeans, not far from his own slacks (for a hundredth time - why?), so the plot thickens and becomes clearer at the same time.

Chill. It will be ok. There are worse things… He glances at the four pictures of Nicole and Pauline on the wall.

Christ, Nicole…

No, naked or dressed, there is only one way out of this situation.

Decided then - make some breakfast and kill yourself, preferably in an unobtrusive manner, without an audience, but later, because Luca is right, it’s uncivil to fuck someone and not even offer a cup of coffee afterwards. Tim deserves better. Tim deserves love, and respect, and fancy jackets, and an Oscar. Tim doesn’t deserve the clusterfuck that is waiting for him.

So, yeah, coffee.

With cream.

And croissants.

And grapes.

And sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to, can we keep it a secret? I won’t tell if you won’t. I’ll sign anything you say, I’ll include you in my will. Only you. That’s a lot, think about it. A lot for one piece of ass, no matter how precious.

Anyway you should be proud, you know, I’ve never even been tempted before, and now I’m fucking obsessed with your laugh, and your voice, and your wrists, and your lips, and… yeah, I digress. Just don’t press charges, ok?

I mean, we were both drunk, right?

And I know myself, I wouldn’t have just pounced on you.

I didn’t, right?

Right this way, Hammer, cell #035, block D. That’s for dumbasses, if you wondered.

Amazing, how he can hyperventilate and grind coffee at the same time, without breaking the rhythm. Fantastic multitasking. Perfect self-control.

The fact is, even if he wanted to go for some grand gesture, there is not much besides coffee in this kitchen - Tim is 22 (Christ, 22!) and has everything to get drunk and nothing to get sober, even this pitiful Arabica is probably Nicole’s doing…

Don’t think about Nicole, keep grinding.

Right.

Ok, what next? Well, when all else fails, start bargaining. Be generous.

If I didn’t fuck Tim, I will spend this Christmas with mom. Honest to God. Well, ok, not Christmas, that’s just too much. New Year. And New Year’s eve.

No?

If I didn’t fuck Tim, I will sign for that stripper part that was offered last month. And give money to charity. And agree to the sequel. And accept the Razzie, personally. (And lose Liz, probably.)

Not enough?

If I didn’t fuck Tim, I won’t drink for a year. And no lasagna. And running, every morning, at sunrise. And no smoking. Almost.

If I didn’t…

Armie shakes his head and searches for a coffee pot. It’s pointless. It’s all too little too late. Like everything with him.

What if I didn’t, what if I didn’t…

What if you did?

What if you did and even if no one finds out, you will know and he will know. He trusted you and you betrayed him, and betrayal… betrayal is the only truth that sticks.

By the time coffee is ready, he manages to find some old cheese and three apples, slightly worn out, but edible. There is also cream, surprisingly, and misshaped mass of ravioli in the freezer. Also pistachio, which almost makes him cry, because goodbye to all that, there won’t be any more “yes, Tim loves nuts” and “you’re such a squirrel,” and Tim blushing and laughing and calling him an asshole.

Yeah, woe is me…

He could look for something else, but he doubts there are any croissants stashed around, and even if so, they are probably here since Bush administration. So this is it – coffee, cheese, three apples, smell of yesterday’s pot, spots of autumn sun, you, me, toda…

“Morning,” he hears Tim’s voice and sees him entering the kitchen. “Been up long?”

 

<> 

“Morning,” Armie replies carefully and prepares for the worst.

Tim hops on the chair and leans forward, sniffing the air contentedly. Fresh as a rose. Not fair.

“You made coffee?”

“Um, yeah, I found the… the supplies. It was…” He can’t stand it anymore, “How are you feeling?”

“Fucked. And not in a good way,” Tim laughs. “You don’t look great yourself. You seem pale. Feeling sick?”

“Yes…”

“Must be absinth. It’s not for everyone.”

“There was absinth too?” Armie asks horrified.

“Yeah. You don’t remember? I had a bottle from Pauline’s visit. It’s really strong, she knows a place where they… Hey, it’s fine, you’ll just need to walk it off. It will go away.”

Tim watches him sympathetically, then picks up his cup and swallows hesitantly. “Not bad. Very nice, in fact.”

Armie follows his movements with such intensity that even the cup starts to frown.

“You really feel terrible? Maybe an aspirin?”

Armie picks up his coffee, brings it to his mouth and then stops, sets it back on the table.

“Timmy, I love you very much. You just… You know it, right?” he asks with all the gravity and dramatism the situation requires.

“Um… yes?”

No, Armie thinks, I can’t do it looking at him, and practically runs to the living room.

“I’m so sorry, Timmy. I’m so fucking sorry,” he sobs and waits.

There is silence, Armie turns around and finds Tim, poor precious, innocent until recently Tim, looking at him and frowning.

“I never meant… It shouldn’t have happened… I don’t know how… God…”

“It’s fine. I understand.”

“No, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t understand. You shouldn’t be so calm. Don’t be so calm, I’m losing my fucking mind here!”

“Yes, I see, actually. Armie, relax a bit, please.”

“Do you need a doctor?” _Do I need a lawyer?_

“A… doctor?” Tim looks at him really strangely now. “No, I’ll just take a shower later, it usually helps.”

“Did I hurt you? Do you… remember?”

“I might have a couple of bruises, but I bruise easily, so it’s fine. Really. You don’t need to worry, man. You needed it yesterday, and what are friends for, right?” Tim shrugs

Come again?

“What do you mean - what are friends for? Not for… not my friends.”

“Not your?.. Wow, it’s… So, I should have just told you to go to hell? That is your idea of friendship?”

“Yes! Like a normal person. Nick would! Nick would have broken my jaw probably, if… if I tried it on him.”

“I think you’re unfair to him. He is a pretty understanding guy.”

“Not as much as you, it looks like,” Armie grumbles.  

“I… I honestly don’t know why you’re so worked up. I mean, concerning me. Because, man, you have a bigger problem here - your whole life is about to change. Think about it.”

Threats? Already?

“Well, my life, yes. If we make it public, I guess.”

“You’ll have to. Eventually. But, come on, many folks go through it and they are fine. Your kids will understand in time, just be honest with them.”

Armie looks at him with absolute amazement.

“Are you crazy? My kids have nothing to do… I’ll keep them as far from all this as possible. I can’t even imagine… Why would I ever talk to my kids about… that?”

“So what, you want them to find out from tabloids?”  

“Tim, I need some time. Please, just, can we keep it between us for a while? I need to…” Armie is pleading now. “God help me, my mom will have a coronary!”

“Hey, wait a second here. You think I, what, will just blurt it out in a casual interview? I mean, come on. It’s like… I didn’t think I had to specify it, but of course, it stays between us. And your mom, is she so serious about it?”

“As if you don’t know her! She will be appalled. She adores Liz.”

“Well, she’ll have to accept it. I mean, you’re a grown man, you have a right to live your life, make your own choices. And, honestly, it’s not the end of the world. Like, I get it, traditional family values and all, but… things happen, people change. Even with the press, I don’t think there will be a lot of commotion. It’s Hollywood. That’s pretty normal. And in your case… I mean, if this is the most scandalous thing you’ll do, you can be congratulated.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, Armie. You seriously need to come down. And I’ll find you this aspirin, because you start to freak me out.”

Tim pats him on the shoulder and goes back to the kitchen. Armie sits on the couch, his head in his hands, staring with unseeing eyes at the paraphernalia on the coffee table.

“Come on. Drink it,” Tim hands him a glass of water.

“I still don’t know how you can be so calm and rational. We fucked last night, I thought it would…” Armie starts saying, but doesn’t finish, because the glass suddenly slips from Tim’s hand and explodes on the floor.

Armie glances at the water slowly absorbed by a fluffy carpet and only sighs. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll take them dry.”

He then looks up at Tim who keeps standing with the pills in hand, frozen like a statue.

“What? It was your favorite glass or something?”

Tim opens his mouth and just stares – on the floor, in space, then finally at Armie.

“Right, don’t move. I’ll sweep it,” Armie says and, immensely grateful for any excuse, disappears to the kitchen and returns with a small broom and a scoop.

“You do have everything, if one searches long enough,” he says with fake cheerfulness and starts carefully sweeping up the shards.

Tim is silent, but follows all his movements doggedly. “I believe I am going to laugh,” he giggles suddenly. “I am going to laugh and then cry. Laugh until I’m crying.”

Armie looks at him warily. Ok, here it goes, the fireworks.

“Hey, it’s ok. That’s at least more normal. I get it. It’s just shock, you’re just now processing it.”

“Oh, yes, I’m… processing,” Tim rolls his eyes and still sounds a bit hysterical.

“I’ve been pretty spooked at first, too,” Armie shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “Threw up. Called Luca.”

“Such a moron…” Tim whispers.

Ok, fair, but…

“Well, as I say, I was pretty shaken, when I… when I saw. Fuck, when I figured it out, ok? I was a mess. Wanted to jump out the window at first.”

“I’m such a moron. When we talked, I thought…” Tim pauses, “You called Luca?”

“I didn’t know what to do!”

“And you told him what exactly?”

“I needed someone! Fuck, I was… I didn’t know what to do, Tim! You think it happens to me every day? You think I have all the answers? Well, I had no idea! So, yes, I called Luca.”

“And told him we had sex, I presume?”

Armie doesn’t like when people ask him questions using this tone of voice, so he usually doesn’t answer.

“Great! Just great!” Tim exclaims, sounding suspiciously like Elizabeth at times.

“Now, don’t look at me like that! Honestly, until this morning I believed we understood each other, but I just… I never imagined that it’s pretty normal for you. Sleeping with your friends.”

“ _Normal_ for me? Are you tripping still?”

“Nick would do it too”, “What are friends for, Armie?”

“I was talking… I meant… Why didn’t you wake me up? Did you call Liz too? Issue a press-release?”

“Christ, is this the only thing you’re worried about? Luca finding out? Five minutes ago you suggested I discuss it with my damn kids!” Armie shouts.

Why does Tim look like he wants to hit him now?

“Your divorce! I was talking about your fucking divorce, you idiot!” Tim cries. “That thing we discussed for about two hours last night. Jesus!”

And yeah, there are moments when Armie wants to hit himself too.

“I… I told you about my divorce?” he frowns.

“Armie, how much do you remember?” Tim sounds exhausted.

“I remember the club, Blitz or…”

“Felice.”

“Well, I remember that.”

“Aha. And?”

“You were dancing, I was drinking. And… well, we are here, so we must have left at some point. Took a car. I think I remember the car.”

“Amazing. Yes, we took a car, because you hated the music, then became all dark and moody and almost got in a fight.”

“Fight? Over what?”

“Some dude I was dancing with. I don’t even remember now, he backed off immediately, after seeing you hovering in the dark. Anyway, I suggested going to my place, we left, came here, smoked some pot… I had that absinth,” Tim lists methodically. “And finally you told me what was so urgent, why I had to cancel everything last night… We talked about that.”

“My divorce.”

“Yeah.” 

Tim stares him. Tim expects some wise grown-up decision.

Keep waiting, kid. Join the line.

“I guess, um, we need to talk more,” Armie suggests at last and Tim nods, but looks frighteningly pensive.

 

<> 

Armie is opening the window, when his phone buzzes.

“Where the hell are you?” Liz asks without ceremony.

Timmy ordered him to wait and left to buy some snacks, because, apparently, the conversation will be long and he can’t think with Armie pacing the carpet and projecting such a loud sense of dread.

“What is wrong? Kids?” Armie sighs.

“ _Kids_ are home. _You_ are not.” Cue her majestic brow going up.

“Yesterday it was all about _I need some space_. Well, I am giving you space.”

“And since when do you care about my feelings?”

“Just don’t start, ok?”

“If you could listen for two straight seconds, we could _finish_ it yesterday.”

“I thought it sort of was finished. The words “I’m divorcing you, loser” gave you away. Or is there another twist coming?”

“Yes,” Liz replies irritated. “Come back.”

“Just like that?”

“What, you need red carpet and a brass band?”

“I think we said a lot to each other yesterday and we both need time.”

“And I think you don’t want to tell me where you are.”

Why is it that the battery never dies, when you really need it? Would have saved so many marriages.

“With a friend,” he replies aiming at total transparency. “Liz, look, I’m glad…”

“Nick is here,” she interrupts.

“So?”

“So, what friend?”

Now, _that_ is insulting.

“With Timmy,” Armie sighs.

“He is in LA?”

Ok, to hell with the battery, give me that magic tunnel people usually enter and immediately lose connection. He momentarily thinks about trying it with Liz, but then thinks better.

“No.”

“Please, please don’t tell me, that you are in New York.”

“Liz, just… I’ll be home by tonight, ok? There are planes every 20 minutes. Ok?”

Dead silence.

“So, just to clarify,” his wife finally says, “we have a fight about the fact that you’re into some boy and as a result you hop on a plane and fly to that same boy. How was the night? I hope you used protection.”

Did they? Please, just one more favor, please…

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he says instead. “Do you even hear yourself? He is my best friend! This is nuts, all these suspicions, and questions, and interrogations. You’re losing it, Liz, seriously. And let me tell you, I’m getting really fucking tired of you treating me like some impulsive child, who needs careful guidance and… and vigilance. Really tired.”

Nice, that. Downright inspired.

“Wow. I’m blown away here, holding on to my knickers. And what invaluable piece of marital advice did this 20-year-old sage give you? Huh?”

“He is 22.” _Which is very important in some states,_ Armie adds silently.

“Oh, so he can actually drink now? Then, I assume, the conversation was profound.”

“He really likes you. Always has. He thinks we are meant for each other.”

“Meaning you and him?”

“You and me, Liz, you and me. Puppies and rainbows, together forever, till death do us part. Well, he _is_ 22, so… Anyway, doesn’t matter, as I said, your paranoia is… it’s totally unfounded.”

“Aha”

Forget the tunnel, Armie is fucking grateful that it’s not FaceTime.

“Liz?..”

“Just a second. Ok, so it’s about 2 p.m. in New York. I’m booking you a flight home for 3.30. If you really want to catch it, you will.”

“3.30? But…”

“Armie,” Liz says and he pictures a giant tiger licking his jaws, “I hope to God you’re on that plane.”

And then she hangs up.


	2. Chapter 2

What Tim sees upon returning with a bag of takeout doesn’t cheer him up much – what he sees is Armie, fully clothed, nervously picking at the collar of his coat and refusing to look at him. The picture is too familiar for him to fake ignorance.

“You are leaving,” Tim states and slams the door forcefully, which makes Armie cringe.

“I… um, yes, Liz called. I got a flight back, they miraculously had a seat.” He briefly looks at Tim and there is guilt there, at least, “I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.”

“Goodbye…”

“Tim, look, it’s not ideal, I get it, but you must understand me – if I go back now, I still have a chance. Not a big chance, but still a chance to save my marriage.”

Liz, marriage – of course.

“For how long?”

“How long what?”

“Save your marriage for how long? It’s been crumbling since we met, like Pisa tower.”

“And it still stands, if you remember.”

“Because they prop it up regularly, and the problem is – it was simply built wrong from the start. So, take pictures and let it fall already.”

“It’s a beautiful tower.”

Tim throws the bag with food on the coffee table. “Didn’t you say she’d talked to the lawyer already?”

“She’ll reconsider, we’ve been through this before.”

“Oh, really? Who did you fuck _that time_?”

“You’re upset. I understand,” Armie says softly

“I’m not upset, I’m enraged!”

“Timmy, please, I’ll call you as soon as I land.”

“What for?” Tim smiles bitterly. “To ask how much you owe me for a night?”

“You’re insulting me.”

But this, Armie realizes immediately, was the wrong thing to say.

“ _I’m_ insulting him. I’m insulting _him_. Fuck you!”

“Buddy, I’m really sorry, but we won’t resolve it here and now. I need to go, you know the traffic. I know you’ll understand.”

“Armie,” Tim’s voice softens and he sounds almost pleading, “don’t do it, please, not this time.”

“As I said, I’m sorry,” Armie bites his lip, but has the decency to look at Tim.

Tim nods, looks around, then nods again.

“Well, I’m sorry too,” he looks straight at Armie.

At first Armie doesn’t know what happened – all he sees is a quick movement and then a car alarm starts blaring down in the street.

“Oops,” Tim shrugs. The hand in which he was holding the keys is now empty.

Armie blinks, looks at the open window, at Timmy, tries to connect it and unfortunately does, “Are you… have you lost your mind? What did you do?”

“Well, now we have all the time in the world,” Tim smiles pleasantly. “Feel at home, dear.”

Armie looks at him stupefied, then, suddenly furious, marches to the door and tries to open it. It doesn’t budge. While it locks automatically, it needs a key to be opened from either side, he soon realizes.

“I don’t have the spare.” He hears from behind him, and it makes his blood boil.

What kind of game is this?

Armie returns to the living room, takes out his phone and without even glancing at Tim starts searching.

“I’ll call a locksmith.”

“I’ll call TMZ.”

“Right,” Armie scoffs, “of course you will.”

But when he looks up, Tim is holding his phone too and it doesn’t look like he is playing at anything.

And, ok, alright, it’s not that Armie expected complete understanding and patient acceptance, it’s not that he deserves them right now even, but he said he was sorry, he apologized. What more can he do? Turn back time? He would. God knows, he would if he could. And Tim must know this, because he knows him, knows that Armie is sincere, knows how much is at stake now.

So why these childish antics? To piss him off?

“It’s my life, Tim, fuck! What’s the matter with you?”

“Fed up, probably. And tired,” Tim replies evenly and continues typing quickly on his phone.

“Christ, I did some real damage to you last night, didn’t I? I’m sorry, ok? I’M SORRY! Do you hear me?”

Tim finally looks at him, contemplative rather than remorseful. “I don’t think you are. I think you messed up there, and instead of resolving it, ran away to me. And now you’re doing it in reverse. And you’ll continue doing this until someone whoops your ass real good. Well, _buddy_ ,” he smiles drily, “seems like it will be me.”

If it was supposed to scare Armie… it did.

“Tim, please. Please! In time you will understand, when you’ve grown up, when… It’s just that sometimes so much gets thrown at you so fast, and you don’t have time to deal with it all. And you make mistakes, drunken mistakes. Timmy, I realize…” he stumbles, trying to find the words, which is not easy. When you need them to be right, it’s never easy. “Timmy…”

But it could be worse, he thinks. This is just unexpected, surprising, but not catastrophic, not fatal. It could be…

“I love you, Armand,” Tim says quietly.

It is worse.

Armie swallows. Tim makes a step towards him, and Armie instinctively retreats, looking around, expecting, hoping now for some voice to come out of nowhere and announce that it’s all a dream and it will end soon enough.

“Don’t be scared,” Tim smiles.

Oh, no. No, no, no! It’s not a dream, it’s a fucking nightmare. Some Matrix where he took the wrong pill and was sent straight to Recycle Bin, it seems.

Ok, fine, ok, every problem has a solution, if you look closely enough, if you don’t lose your head, if you don’t panic…

Armie grabs the lamp from a console table and smashes it on the floor.

“HELP! FIRE! HELP!” he screams.

It’s like the whole world has stopped for a second and holds its breath. Tim stops moving and talking, looks at the lamp, broken into a million lovely pieces, looks at Armie’s hands, frozen in mid-throw, then finally at Armie, who himself seems shocked.

“They are on vacation, they won’t come,” he taps the floor lightly. “And don’t throw anything at the ceiling - that’s hand-painted porcelain, shit is expensive.”

“This is not happening,” Armie whispers.

“Relax, breathe.”

“I don’t want to breathe! I want out of here! I want to go to the airport!” He sees Tim moving again, “Stay where you are!”

“Ok. Ok.”

Armie rubs his face, thinking furiously, “Wait… wait, you must have a backdoor. I know these apartments…”

He throws away the coat, kept all this time at the crook of his arm, and rushes past Tim.

“Armie…”

Armie runs into the kitchen, looks around, then disappears down the hallway leading to the bathroom.

Tim hears loud banging, followed by unintelligible swearing, followed by some… scratching?

He shakes his head and goes straight to the cupboard in the kitchen. “It’s three inches of steel. You’ll only maim yourself,” he shouts, probably unnecessarily, because all the noises stopped.

When Armie returns looking defeated, Tim is standing at the kitchen island, again with a glass in hand.

“Ok, let’s be reasonable,” Armie says tiredly.

“My thoughts exactly.” Tim gives him two pills. Again.

Yes, it is Matrix. Soon some chick in black latex will start floating menacingly in the air. Just you wait.

“What is it?” Armie asks, barely caring by this point.

“Xanax”

“I don’t need it.”

“By the time it kicks in, you probably will. Drink.”

Well, shit, if he goes with that love stuff, Armie muses, I will indeed. So he drinks, hand slightly shaking, because, yes, it was steel there, it hurt.

“Damn, this one I did like,” Tim says, glancing at the unlucky lamp.

“I will thrash this whole place if you don’t let me out,” Armie promises.

“Don’t worry, I was planning to redecorate, anyway.”

“Tim, what do you want?”

“Honesty, accountability.”

“I’m honest. I’m as honest as they come. I have too much of the stuff, if you ask my publicist.”

Tim folds his hands and frowns. “Armie, you love dick. It’s time to accept it, once and for all.”

Armie chokes on the water he is sipping. “That’s asinine!”

“Long and hard is the way out of the closet, I see,” Tim sighs. “But, come on, three years and still square one? I made peace with myself at fifteen. You’re fucking 33.”

Like, what is it? What the…

“Timmy, I love women. I really love women. That’s the truth. I swear to you,” he pleads and gets no reaction. “What the hell do I have to do to prove it?”

“Stop checking out my ass so often, for starters.”

“I don’t.”

Tim just stares at him.

“Well, ok, a couple of times. And that accidentally.”

“You grab me every time you get drunk. Every time.”

“That’s not true. Not every time. Anyway, it’s not romantic. The way I do it, it’s not meant to be romantic. If you take it that way, that’s on you. But it’s affection… a friendly gesture.”

“Yes, downright fraternal,” Tim rolls his eyes. “You text too.”

“And this is now a gayness symptom? Messaging?”

“’I miss you, babe’? Yes, I would say so.”

“It’s a joke!”

“And last night?” Tim takes the apple left from breakfast and starts rolling it on the table, catching and releasing, catching and releasing, waiting.

Armie hesitates.

“Fine, fine. Let’s talk then. Right. I didn’t want it to come to this, but fine. Let’s talk about what the problem here really is.”

“Oh, I’m all ears.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” Armie declares.

Tim pauses, then snorts, “Curioser and curioser. Proceed.”

Well, as you wish, my dear…

“Yes, you’re obsessed with me. And I don’t know when it started, but I see that it got out of hand. You got infatuated with a straight married guy and it stopped being cute.” He exhales noisily, “You’ve lost your mind, Timmy. You need help.”

“I got it, don’t worry. I was in therapy for about five months,” Tim calmly returns to his bloody apple. “Luca knows this wonderful chick in Oregon - we used to go to the woods and I would scream: “Armie is a fucking asshole, Armie is a fucking asshole” until my voice cracked. Terrific technique, if you ask me. Very economical, too.”

“Why would you scream that?”

“She said it was acceptance of something you can’t change.”

“She said that?” Armie asks offended. “Wait, she knows my name?”

“No, I just described you and she immediately recognized the type.” Tim looks at him, “So, you see, I accepted you. Now _you_ need to accept you.”

“Accept that I’m an asshole? Gee, thanks.”

“It will help, trust me. It will liberate you in ways you can’t imagine and some that you can, and I’m sure, did. Because one of your problems is that deep down you for some reason still think that you are a nice guy. You’re not. You have more imagination.”

“No, no, no, you’re just trying to change the subject. I’m not the problem, the problem is you and your… your fixation on me. You obviously constructed some weird fantasy in your head, some alternative universe, where I’m… gay or something, your soulmate, I don’t know.” He scratches his forehead, “My god, you’re delusional and I didn’t even see it. All this time I was worried about stalkers, but why bother when I have you? We don’t need a locksmith, we need a fucking ambulance here. Christ!”

I will help, Armie thinks, I’ll pay the bills, I caused it, after all. The decision palpably relaxes him. Purpose, he likes to have a purpose, it always clears up his mental debris.

“After the divorce, who will get the dog?” Tim asks calmly. “It’s just that my mom is allergic, so it would be convenient if Liz kept it.”

“Timmy, please, you’re scaring me.”

“Oh, I know. You do look terrified.”

“We can’t be together, Timmy. Not in that way. It’s not possible. You are very confused,” Armie says very carefully. Who knows what is the trigger here, right?

“I had this bear when I was little. Teddy bear, you know, it was mechanical. Well, one day I decided to find out what it was made of. I broke it, it never worked again,” he sounds genuinely sad. “You’re that bear all over again.”

“No, Armie, I am not that bear,” Tim rolls his eyes. “But vivisection is off the table, if you wondered.”

“You don’t get metaphors.”

“Well, you don’t get ballet and urine therapy. We’re even.” He finally leaves the apple and looks at Armie, “The hilarious part is that everyone thinks that I’m this spaced out, romantic and basically useless guy, and you are the sturdy and practical one. If they only knew.”

“You’re neurotic, you cry a lot.”

“You’ll break anyone,” Tim scoffs. “Liz deserves a Purple Heart for her 10 year stretch.”

“She is a terrific woman.”

“Totally. I can almost see why you are so desperate. Fantastic tits. No offence.”

“And she bakes,” Armie nods.

“And she bakes.”

“Timmy…” he starts hesitantly

“No,” Tim interrupts. “You stay.”

Armie leans on the kitchen island and tries to find the solution in gray depths of the marble table top. Grayness stonily stares back. You’re on your own, pal. 

“Alright,” he begins, “look, I crossed the line. I shouldn’t have. If I could I would take it back, because you mean a lot to me. More than you know. More than you can understand. I admire you, I respect you, I think you’re incredible, one of the best human beings I’ve met, and I never wanted to hurt you…”

He glances at Tim who seems to be listening. Good sign.

“But,” he continues, “let’s be honest here – the state I was in… Again, I shouldn’t have, yes. But come on, when you are so out of it, you can fuck a dog, won’t matter to you. You’re a man, you must…”

And no, judging by Tim’s changed face, that didn’t sound as reasonable and reassuring as he thought.

“Tim? Ok, sorry, that was… not the best… not to offend you… not, like literally… the dog…”

By the time Armie finally shuts up, Tim has left the kitchen and started pacing the living room. He stops a couple of times, thinks, then moves again.

“Just why?” he says after several attempts. “I’m looking at you and I… this is one thing I don’t understand – why?”

“Why… what? I told you I was…”

“Why _you_?” Tim sounds exasperated. “Of all the gin joints in all the world… Why _the fuck_ it had to be you? Do I project it? Is it written on my forehead – only jerks need apply? Huh?”

“Tim…”

“I’m young.”

“Yes.”

“Talented.”

“Very.”

“And handsome.”

“And smart,” Armie helps.

“Yes! God, yes! So, why you? My dad hates you, my sister doesn’t trust you, my mom… well, my mom just sends me sad haiku from time to time. Even my grandma has given up by now. I simply don’t get it. I really… What is it? What made Luca just glance at me and go – yep, that’s the man for you, Timmy, that will work.”

“Random luck of the universe?” Armie chuckles.

“Luck? You call _this_ luck?” Tim is furious. “You’re a random _plague_ of the universe! That shit that hits you from outer space and even NASA is powerless. You’re like herpes. It’s incurable, you know, it never really goes away. Even changes your DNA over the years, herpes does. And that’s what you do to me, Armie. You’re something I caught by sheer stupidity and now my balls will itch until retirement.”

“Now, look…”

“Yes, a plague,” Tim insists. “No, ten plagues. Ten plagues of Egypt. Do you remember what they did?”

“I think you…”

“Ruined!” he points at Armie. “They completely ruined this beautiful ancient civilization. Laid waste. Look at the place now – dusty rocks and cheap hotels. And hordes of drunken German tourists.” His eyes narrow, “You have German blood, don’t you?”

“Ok, slow down a bit. And I have Russian blood in me too, if it helps.”

“Oh, yes, another marvel – the schmucks who fucked over Napoleon. Best damn general in history.” He looks at Armie accusingly, “You proud?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t touch your precious Napoleon, I only…”

“Yes, you only fucked _me_.”

“And you’re only _half_ -French, cheri, so drop it,” Armie exclaims. “And why would your father hate me, anyway? Is it over Napoleon, too?”

“Ah, no, my dad…” Tim plops on the couch and looks at the bag of takeout. “Well, my dad dated this chick in college - started in medieval exegesis and ended up in quantum physics, burned his car on the way. She now heads some important European agency that can blow up the planet, if they have a quorum. Dad shudders every time he sees her on TV,” he smiles and unwraps one of the sandwiches he bought earlier.

“So, he always said: Timmy, beware of the people who don’t know what they want. These people, son, can fuck up everything you know and love.

“I should have listened…” he finishes and bites into the sandwich.

“Your dad gives me too much credit.”

“Whatever…”

These sandwiches look very nice, Armie notices, in spite of his better judgement.

“Come on, there is turkey here, your favorite,” Tim motions to the remaining three and pats the empty space on the couch beside him.

Armie looks. It smells good. Tempting.

No, he knows what it is – Stockholm syndrome: your captor feeds you and you fall for him. Won’t work. Not with him. He is not a slave to his biology, he is a deeply spiritual, sophisticated…

“With honey?” he asks and hates himself.

“Mhm”

Ok, on the other hand, he hasn’t eaten for close to 20 hours by now and he needs energy. To escape this hell he needs to be strong. And if turkey is the key to gaining freedom…

“Fuck, that’s actually delicious,” he admits and takes a huge bite.

“Right around the corner. Delivery at all hours.”

Good portions, too. It’s scary how well Tim knows him by now. Must have studied him. God, who knows how far it has progressed, his mental troubles?

“So, you’re really planning to come out?” Armie asks after a while.  

“I’m planning to be outed. Though, I hope it won’t happen until spring. I mean, my Oscar chances are dismal as it is - adding homewrecking and butt sex won’t help. We’ll play it by ear, I guess,” Tim shrugs. 

“Oscars, yeah… no, don’t think so, everyone loves you. Literally everyone. Even Republicans. It’s crazy.”

“Yeah, actually, I saw some weird poll. If I ran and won, I’d make you my Press Secretary.”

“Not VP?”

“No, waste of talent. You were created for Public Relations. I see it already – you standing there and pontificating about the size of my _crowd_ ,” Tim smirks.

“So what would President Chalamet do?”

“Return Louisiana, obviously. First day in office, right off the bat.”

“I fucking knew it! You and your grudges… What next, Texas – back to Mexico?”

“Probably. With your mom on board,” Tim laughs. “But if you ask me nicely, we can keep it. I’m easy that way.”

“You would be a good president…” Armie says softly.

Tim turns and looks at him. “Ahhhh, your sedatives start kicking in. Adorable.”

Armie leans back on the couch and stares at the ceiling. What was it Tim said? Porcelain? Looks fine.

“This is the weirdest day of my life. Officially.” He murmurs.

“Wait until next year, when you’re out and proud. That will be something to behold. And it’s all me. I get teary-eyed just from thinking about it.”

“Neurotic, as I said.” Armie looks at his watch. “Shit, my plane’s just taken off.”

Tim stands up and goes to the kitchen, returning with a pack of orange juice and a glass. He pours some and gives it to Armie.

“You need your vitamins, honey.”

“It’s pasteurized.” Armie sniffs “And don’t call me honey. I’m the furthest thing from “honey” on this planet.”

“But of course, you’re all alpha all the time.”

“Hell yeah. The last of Mohicans,” Armie sighs.

“Clint Eastwood in disguise, you.” Tim moves closer, takes his arm and slings it over his shoulder.

“This is the weirdest…”

“Yes, I know.”

They both stare at the ceiling in genuine contentment.

“You must realize that it’s impossible, you and me,” Armie says quietly after a while. “Whatever you say, no matter how many doors you lock – it’s impossible. It will never work.”

Tim is silent, thoughtful.

“I had a friend once, when I was little. We were both dreaming about the stage, being an actor. Used to watch all these flicks together – like “Lawrence of Arabia”, “Spartacus” – all that epic stuff. I remember telling him how I wanted to be in a movie like this - the battles, the speeches, gloomy music, flaming horizons. Pretentious as fuck, the stuff only Americans can make and watch with conviction, but so awesome. Larger than life. Better than life. Like… truly spectacular, breathtaking, grandiose…”

“I get it.”

“Right, right. Well, he… he didn’t say it outright or anything, but he was amused,” Tim pauses and smiles a bit sadly. “Because I don’t look heroic, I guess. Or epic. Not larger than life.”

Armie hugs him tighter. “And now he delivers pizza, and you are a movie star. I see.”

“No, no. He doesn’t deliver pizza, he is an actor, he made it too. Will be a hot shot on Broadway, I think. Must be nicely paid.”

“But?”

Tim turns, kisses his cheek and whispers, “But I got ‘Dune’”

“So, what? Dream big? Try harder? Never give up?”

“Never forget – I get what I want, eventually.”

“It’s not a movie, Timmy,” Armie sighs. “I’m not your Oliver, you’re not…”

“Oh, shut up!” Tim groans. “Shut up or I’ll bite you. The way you won’t like.”

It makes Armie laugh.

“I’m just so tired of them by now, I swear to God,” Tim shakes his head. “But that’s exactly the point - you’re not that sad douche and I’m… well, I’m mediocre at piano.

“They are not the blueprint, Armie. It’s a terrific read, yes, but it’s a terrible life - I won’t fucking live it. And coûte que coûte I won’t let you either.”

Armie squeezes Tim tightly and, unable to stop himself, kisses his temple. “So we’ll be what then? Gay Brangelina?”

“Hell, no! Look at them now. Fuck that!”

“True. Ok, who?” After a second, “Grace Kelly and her prince.”

“And you are the prince, I presume?”

“But of course.”

“And I get smashed into a road pole. Nice.”

Armie laughs.

“Ok, ok.” He thinks for a second, “Kim and Kanye! Better? I’ve got the talent, you’ve got the looks. It fits.”

“You _are_ obsessed with my ass!” Tim cries. “Finally!”

“Frankly, my dear, you have still miles to go to compete.”

“Well, I won’t puff it up for you, don’t hold your breath. You’ll get by on what nature provided me,” Tim huffs.

“And if I ask nicely?” Armie reminds him, leaning closer and kissing his cheek. Once, twice. And why stop at two anyway, when Tim seems so soft, and pliable, and portable, and edible, and…

…and it’s really hot in New York in November. Who knew? Must be climate change.

“Keep… keep asking…”

“Is it working?”

“It… a lot… yeah… no, no Botox in my buns, but… don’t give up… easily,” Tim encourages. “Just… why am I always… the chick? In… in theory?”

“Nurturing vibes you are emanating?”

Tim pokes him in the ribs, but Armie, seeing his scandalized expression, only laughs harder.

“Hey! I am not emanating!.. Anything! ..not emanating!”

“Yeah, vibes… constantly… and… and your eyelashes… girly as fuck!” Armie manages between laughter and trying to fight off Timmy.

Suddenly - how and why, he doesn’t notice, - but suddenly Tim is in his lap and in place of that hand-painted ceiling there are green eyes, staring back at him. Laughing, shining, unique green. And, God, how he missed it, suddenly, – its brightness, its gentleness, its depth.

It comes to him then, in a moment of crystalline merciless clarity – that his useless war was lost long ago, long before this room and this November; that it’s not about dignity anymore, only survival.

And he isn’t sure, for once, he can’t be sure he will survive it, this mesmerizing green.

Tim strokes his cheeks gently and leans closer. “It will sound cheesy,” he whispers.

“Ok…”

“We’ll be like nobody else, Armie. Nobody else, before or after.”

“Timmy…”

“Too late, too fucking late.”

And Armie shouldn’t, of course, he shouldn’t, but he kisses him back.


	3. Chapter 3

It becomes blurry – time, space, language, right and wrong mix together, lose their dimensions, create something new. Who knows where one kiss began and another ended? Who can say when it’s become so easy not to think, to remember, to doubt?

At some point, somewhere.

Is it November still?

Probably, it is.

He doesn’t recognize the sound at first, it became difficult with all the furious noise in his head, but then he understands – the buzz means the phone ringing, the phone means reality sending her regards.

Welcome back, dear, what is it you were doing?

“Noooooo…” Tim whines and tries to cling to him, but Armie gently pushes back.

Jesus, what the hell are you thinking?

Are you, at all?

Armie closes his eyes and Tim swears quietly, but gets off his lap to go pick it up, pausing for a second, when he sees the name on the screen.

“Um, yeah, hi…”

He glances at Armie and turns away. And Armie for some reason, without even thinking, wipes his lips. Yeah, time to get back to here and now.

“Look, it’s great, but… maybe some other time…” Tim is saying. “Yeah, I understand that you are free… it’s just that, um, it’s… mom wanted to see me tonight… yeah… no, no, doesn’t matter… yes, I’ll remember. I’ll call you later, ok? Sorry. Yes. Ok, bye. Ok.”

Tim turns back and they look at each other silently for a second.

“It’s nothing urgent. It was… well…”

“Your girlfriend,” Armie finishes for him.

“Yeah… um, yeah…”

Armie nods.

“We’re safe for now. She won’t come,” Tim says with false cheerfulness. “Anyway it wasn’t important, she understands. And we’ve been lucky today - usually my phone is exploding. Yours, too.”

He goes back to the couch, evidently aiming at Armie’s lap again, but Armie stands up and moves to the window. There is a pack of cigarettes on the sill and he picks it up, not caring about the brand.

Yes, he has a girlfriend, you have a wife, and here you are. And it’s because you forget it all so easily, so damn carelessly, that you are in this mess in the first place.

But here you go again. Bravo.

“Fuck,” he hears Tim mumbling.

The day is fading outside. They are short, these autumn days. The sun is distant, cold, treacherous, and trees burn in red and gold, beautiful as never before, screaming and dying.

It is really November. And, outside the cinema, they are rarely sweet.

I need to get out of here, Armie thinks. Just get out of here, before there is nothing left to save. Before something else happens. Before he makes me forget again.

“Now what?” Tim asks.

Armie inhales deeply several times, filling his lungs with necessary, anesthetizing bitterness.

“What do you really want, Tim? With all this, I mean. Will you chain me to the radiator next? Put me on a leash?” he takes another drag. “You’re just postponing the inevitable, you know.”

“Strange, I think you’re doing the same. Been doing it for a long time, in fact.”

“Attraction isn’t enough, Timmy. And, alright, fine, I won’t deny it, wouldn’t do any good now, I am… let’s say I thought about it. About this. Us. About us like this. No matter. It doesn’t change anything. As I say, attraction isn’t enough, and I’m not 22 to think it is.”

“Ouch”

“Do you understand what I am saying?” Armie looks at him.

“You’re not saying anything new. I’ve heard it back in Crema, then I heard it in Cali, then in London, then… Well, the point is, you’ve been hinting – as much as you’re able to – hinting at it for a long fucking time. And it’s always the same shit, different flavors – “I’m too old, Tim”, “my wife is great, Tim”, “I live for my kids, Tim”, “later you’ll understand, Tim”, “image is everything, Tim”. Which translates, basically – yeah, I would if I could, but paycheck is too good and change is scary. Have anything new to add?”

“Yes, take a dictionary and look up ‘responsibility’!” Armie replies angrily.

“You look up ‘fear’!”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Armie sneers.

“No, you’re afraid of ridicule, that’s why you can’t act half the time.”

It’s written all over his face, that Tim regrets them as soon as he says it, these words that he won’t be able to take back now, ever.

Armie visibly recoils as if from a slap. But it sobers him up even more, it helps to wake up.

“Alright. Yeah. Alright,” he talks slowly “‘To whom evil is done…’. Yeah, I get it.”

“It’s not about revenge. I don’t hate you, I could never… fuck… Armie, I lov…” Tim is pleading.

“Stop! You stop right now! This is what’s most fucked up about it all – you have no damn idea what you’re talking about, what you’re asking for. Your whole experience is teachers showering you with praise, adoring parents, hipster friends, plus, occasional Twitter meltdown. What have you risked losing? What have you ever lost? A couple of auditions? Casual girlfriend?   

“You’re sitting here lecturing me about fear? You?” he laughs bitterly. “Don’t you remember how you threw Woody under the bus at the first signs of trouble, just to save your hide? Didn’t lose much sleep over it, did you? And you’ll do it again without blushing, if I know anything about this business.”

Armie turns away and takes out another cigarette, then crumbles it in his fist.

Tim is silent for a long time, then joins him at the window  and lights up a cigarette for himself. The sun, finding his eyes, makes the green sparkle momentarily, makes Armie look away.

“You really think I’ll do that to you?”

“There is always another ‘Dune’, Tim.”

“Yes, there is always another ‘Dune’…” Tim pauses, inhales. “And being with a guy won’t help you get it. Right?”

Right?

Oh, so easy they go up in flames, red and gold, another of your hopes, another of your secrets – wanting to be better than that, suspecting you are not.

And, yes, yes, when you’re so good together, you’re good at everything – especially at tearing each other apart. He’s been through this before, with Liz, he knows the mechanics by now. Little bloodlettings to calm the nerves, administered by hands so familiar and sure.

Tim looks at him and Armie can’t hold the gaze. “It’s not about that.”

“It is. Unfortunately, I think it is.”

Outside, the trees continue their burning, and he thinks he hears the screams and wishes he didn’t.

“If it makes you feel better - after that Allen press-release, James didn’t answer my calls for three weeks,” Tim sounds sad. “And he hates Woody plenty.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t…” He finishes his cigarette and takes Armie’s hand in both of his. “Armie, it’s bullshit, it’s all bullshit. I know you want it, and I want it too, I’m no better, but - take just a step away and you realize how meaningless it all is. The whole fucking circus.”

“I never wanted anything else,” Armie looks at their joined hands. “I don’t think I know _how_ to want anything else.”

“I can give you some ideas,” Tim winks.

“I’m serious here, you know?”

“Oh, me too, me too.”

“You just don’t give up, do you? Just…” Armie says with astonishment and admiration at the same time.

“I’m fighting for two, it’s not easy.” Tim is solemn. “But it’s like that bug, scarab. World’s strongest insect – small, but can move several hundred times its own weight. I’ll survive.”

“They roll dung balls, you know?”

“You can’t always choose your battles,” Tim laughs, but then becomes serious again. “Armz, you have to sign for this De Palma flick.”

“You kidding? It’s “American Gigolo” basically. No, thank you.”

“You need it.”

“Tim, it’s trash, trust me.”

“It’s more than that, it’s a challenge.”

“Being an eye candy? Shaking your ass? Again, no, thank you.”

“You _are_ an eye candy.”

Armie goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge and looks for a bottle of mineral water he spotted earlier in the morning.

“Twenty years ago you would have been your generation’s Kevin Costner…” Tim says following him.

“I said no, Tim. Ok?”

“But you remember that interv…”

“Shut it, alright?”

“Very mature.”

“Just accepting my inner asshole. Sans Oregonian woods.”

Armie glances at Tim sideways, warily, expecting another line of attack. Tim smiles and hops on the kitchen island.

“By the way, it was our first fight. As a couple,” he says and takes a bottle from Armie.

“Timmy, please…”

“And we’ll have a nickname, I guarantee you. So prepare yourself, delete Twitter in advance. I don’t want hysterics.”

“Tim…”

“Shush, I’m thinking. Yes, yes, probably… Hamlamet. You ready for this?”

“No,” Armie replies with complete honesty.

“Never fear, we’ll make a man out of you yet. That’s your gay reeducation camp. Crash course,” Tim winks. “And I like it, actually, Hamlamet. It sounds… mysterious? Like a dessert.”

“Mysterious dessert?” Armie chuckles. “Yeah, one way to enter history, sure. As a mysterious dessert.”

“Yes! _Long live the walls we crashed through!_ ” Tim starts singing softly and slides sideways, facing Armie, looking up and looking in.

Open, untamable, unbearable, incorrigible. Your little kitten, who grew up, while you weren’t looking. Tougher now, stronger. Still too beautiful to be harmless.

And you look back, Hammer, you damn fool, and you forget it all over again, all that was so important, all that you promised not to. Promised a thousand times before.

“What?” Armie whispers and doesn’t understand why.

Tim looks some more and then hugs him, tightly, hands and legs locking.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says quietly. “Before.”

Armie thinks about the airport, about California, about tomorrow, about every single reason why he shouldn’t and then hugs him back. “It’s fine.”

It feels nice. Very nice. Too nice. But he’ll let go. Of course. He can still do it.

“I reeeeally love your hair,” he sighs, one of his hands diving right in.

“I reeeeally love your butt,” Tim replies, mimicking his tone.

Armie snorts, but tenses immediately, feeling those hands on said butt.

“Easy, easy, boy…” Tim murmurs. “That’s a good horse. Easy…”

“Don’t push it,” Armie warns and receives a quick devilish kiss below the chin.

I need to get out of here, he reminds himself. Now, yesterday. If they close the airports, I’ll take a bloody submarine. Anything.

“Want to know something?” Tim leans slightly back

“I doubt it.”

“I’ve always wanted to dance with you.”

“Keep wanting.”

“Dance with me. No one is here, no one is looking, no one will know,” and those eyes again, so soft, so close. “Dance with me.”

 

<> 

He doesn’t turn around when the music starts playing.

Tim is there, waiting, silent. Tim still believes you can do it.

Can you?

How can you not?

No one is looking.

No one will know.

It’s a make-believe, it won’t last longer than this day, don’t think, say yes. Reach out, touch faith.

The cards were dealt long ago, you’ve seen your hand already and you’ll back away eventually, but for several moments longer, you can sit and bluff that it’s royal flush, not a sure loss.

Dance with him, twenty years from now you’ll still be kicking yourself if you don’t.

Everything went wrong with your story – age, timing, geography, results.

Everything went right with your story – age, timing…

Dance with him.

He won’t ask you again, you realize. It might be the last time he throws away the keys and bets it all on you, with one crazy, heartbreaking fit of bravery most people won’t know the weight of.

So, yes, Armie turns around. Yes, Armie says his name.

 

<> 

Tim thinks that hours have passed. He doesn’t know, but the changing light gives him a clue – it’s twilight, baby, and it’s getting colder outside, and probably that’s why you are shivering slightly.

You’re cunning, you’re stealthy, you cheat for a living, you’ve set the track on repeat.

You did smarten up, man’s cub, you did grow older, but Red Flower unfurls in the darkness and illuminates the truth: you can’t make Akela younger and stronger, you can’t teach your old wolf new tricks, it turns out.

You may lose tonight, yes, but you knew it all along.

So hold closer and remember it all - the smell of his neck, the warmth of his skin, the feel of his feet under yours, the flow of his breathing. Remember and keep it. Take it away with you on a long journey that is ahead. Bring it back at times, in between your hills and valleys, dust it off and breathe it in. Close your eyes and it will be there – your _notti là in America_ , your _catena_ , your _dolore_.

Remember. Just in case.

Remember, so when one day someone curious and ignorant will ask you about happiness, you’ll be able to say November, to say twilight, to say New York. Not the date, not the truth, not the name, but probably, hearing you, someone somewhere will understand.

Hold closer, breathe deeper, lie fiercer.

Naïveté turns into bitterness turns into sadness turns into art.

Give it time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU – everyone for everything – kudos, comments, encouragement, kindness, for your time spent reading this.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything comes to an end at some point – you can put the record on repeat, but not the dance and not the dancers.

They stand in front of each other, silent. Tim glances at Armie and then goes to switch off the music. It’s completely dark outside and he lights up the lamp, the only one remaining in the room. Soft terracotta glow fills the space, dissolving into dark corners.

“We fucked it up, right? You and me?” Tim says quietly. “Even worse than them…”

“Fuck them…” Armie replies tiredly.

“At least, they had something…”

“They had weeks, we had years. We have…” Armie sighs. “It doesn’t have to end, not really. We’ll see each other often, we’ll have to, with all the… And then there is that sequel. So… yeah. In sheer numbers we win.”

“We could keep it quiet, you know. For a long time,” Tim looks at him. “God, half the town are faking it and have been for years… We can…”

“Timmy, baby, no. You’ll hate it, you’ll hate what it will make of you. And most of all you’ll hate me,” Armie stops him. “It always seems like a solution, until it cuts you to the bone.”

“What?”

“Lying.”

“So you’ll tell Liz the truth? About all this?” Tim says bitterly.

“I’ll tell… Fuck, my wife is my concern, ok? Leave it alone.”

“And me? What can you tell me?”

“I was drunk, Timmy. Probably I’ve been drunk these last three years. Time for some ibuprofen.”

“You do realize that there is no going back for us, right? That you walk away through this door today, you’re walking away from everything,” Tim goes and stands in front of him again. “You don’t want to lie? Well, neither do I. And I don’t think faking friendship is any better than faking love. Or easier.

“So, it’s on you, really. The door is that way,” he motions half-heartedly.

“Locked door.”

Tim looks at him for a long moment, then goes to a bookshelf and retrieves something from one of the small boxes. Heavy set of keys drops on the coffee table.

Armie looks at it incredulously.

“But you…”

“…said I didn’t have it. I do.”

“You lied!”

Tim just rolls his eyes.

“And that’s here is the problem – you want us to build something together and you lie to me. I can’t trust you. You can’t be straight with me,” Armie says heatedly.

“No, with you I can’t be straight _at all._ ”

“You kept me here all day, playing the victim, interrogating me and all this time you had the fucking key?” Armie continues, ignoring him, amazed and angry at the same time.

“Not only I, my doorman has a copy too,” Tim looks at him calmly. “And you knew it.”

“Of course I didn’t! Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve single-handedly destroyed ten years of my marriage!”

“Distance, boredom and frustration destroyed your marriage!” Tim returns equally forcefully. “I only gave the final nudge.

“But you know what? I’m fucking glad! I’d do it again a thousand times. That’s called fighting for your man.”

“Fighting for… I can’t believe it. I trusted you!”

“You _used_ me!”

It stops Armie dead.

“That’s not true. Not… What are you even talking about?.. I never…” It sounds hesitant, unsure, it sounds like an apology already. And why?

“Yes, you did. You did! Because you knew… Armie, you’ve always known,” Tim’s voice cracks and he takes a breath. “And you loved it. We all love _being loved_.”

“If you… if it was like this… If you felt… you should have said something… You should… You…”

Tim laughs bitterly. “To hear another ‘sorry, Timmy’?”

“I would never do that!”

“You did it today.”

“Oh, don’t talk about today. You tricked me! Put me against the wall! You…”

“I gave you a chance! I gave _us_ a chance! And you are blowing it!”

“Hell, what did you expect? That I would fall on my knees and pledge you my troth? Just like that?”

“Yes. Yes!”

“Then you’re fucking delusional. For real,” Armie scoffs.

“No, I’m not,” Tim looks straight at him, cheeks slightly reddened, eyes burning, voice steady. “I have no illusions about you whatsoever, and I still love you. And that, while flattering, scares the shit out of you.”

Ah, he thought it was before, but it’s now, right now - time to break another lamp, to cry fire, cry SOS, cry so loudly that the walls will collapse. It’s time to board another plane and cross an ocean or two. It’s time for the final credits, but the script goes on.

And, by the way, darling, didn’t you say that vivisection was off the table? Another lie?

“I am more afraid that you will stop,” Armie finally says, feeling the last reserves of energy leaking out of him. “I am more afraid of that.”

“Then don’t let me…” Tim is pleading.

“I need to go, Timmy. Now I really need to go.”

Armie goes straight for the keys on the coffee table, avoiding Tim’s eyes, trying to move quietly but quickly – it’s an escape anyway, it’s better not to attract attention now.

“Right, of course,” Tim nods to himself. “You need to go, you need to hide, and pretend, and make excuses. Can’t do anything right, can’t finish anything, can’t face the mirror!” his voice is increasing with each new accusation. “Can’t even fuck! No wonder she is divorcing you!”

And that does it. If he thought, that nothing could now - that makes Armie stop and turn around on his way to the door, makes his heart skip a beat in a rush that is anything but romantic.

“What the hell did you say? What did you say right now?” he asks coldly

“Ah, right. Last night. Of course. Let’s open this can too, while we are at it…” Tim is laughing a bit, but it doesn’t sound particularly merry.

Just don’t say it, don’t say what I suspect you’re going to, just…

“Nothing happened! Nothing to write home about…” Tim says triumphantly, probably half mad too by now.

Someone will die here today, Armie suddenly realizes. There is no way around it. The only thing worse than a mindfuck is a mindfuck for nothing. If nothing…

That window looks inviting again, you can’t waste such a good prop. If he didn’t jump from it himself, he at least can throw someone out of it.

Crime of passion. What do you want?

Anyway, headlines will be to die for.

“Oh, don’t look so relieved. Wasn’t for the lack of trying, I can assure you,” Tim ploughs on, apparently mistaking quietness with harmlessness.

“You better think twice, before you continue,” Armie warns in the spirit of fairness.

“I don’t have to think, I only have to remember. You passed out! No, worse – you passed out right on top of me!” Tim is somehow indignant. “Do you know how it feels? Like a baby grand landing on you, that’s how. Took me forever to dig myself out. Thought I’d suffocate!”

No.

No!

No, it doesn’t work that way – I was supposed to cross the threshold with a sad look on my face and gentle piano for soundtrack. It was supposed to be all sublime and elegiac. All heartbreak and strange remembrance, or something.

“Are you sorry at least?” Tim demands, interrupting his musings.

“I… For what now? Not… not…”

“Not getting it up, yes.”

“Jesus Christ… No, I am not!”

“Of course, because you’re an asshole! But you at least could have said something before, you know. I wouldn’t have judged you.”

“Say what, for God’s sake? I don’t… I have a drinking problem! Ok? Yes, I admit it - I drink! I drink! But… This… That… It works! That works fine! More than fine, if you want to know!”

“Aha…”

It’s incredible – fifteen years in the business, tons of hard work, family, respectability, discipline, dedication, then this crazy dude waltzes in and it all goes tits up.

“This is just…” Tim shakes his head. “It’s so frustrating, but that’s you in a nutshell.”

“What is?”

“This whole mess,” Tim looks around. “Do you know how many times I tried to seduce you? Do you?”

“I…”

“I can’t tell you myself - I lost count. And the result? Fuck all is the result – you could never move past second base. Now I understand why.”

“You don’t have second base…” Armie replies automatically.

“Yeah, that initially puzzled you a lot.”

“You’re lying!”

“I don’t have tits, trust me.”

“No… what you’re saying… before, it never happened before!”

“It did, oh, it did. Again, nothing spectacular, no fireworks, but like clockwork – we are alone, you’re drunk, and voila – I have hickeys in the morning, you don’t remember a thing and Luca wants to go back to drinking.” He points at Armie, “And it’s all you.”

“Luca drinking? Now, wait…”

“Yes, you,” Tim insists. “All you, all this international psychodrama.”

No, not true, can’t be true. Shouldn’t.

“I think I need to sit down,” Armie decides.

And he does, too. Because, look, into each life some rain must fall and all, but _some_ and not in _one_ fucking day…

“You need to tell me honestly why now. That’s what you need,” Tim doesn’t relent.

“What now?” Armie asks wearily from the couch.

“Now, when I finally said to myself - enough, this self-flagellation had been going on for too long, when I even started dating a girl, for a change. Now, _suddenly_ , here you are, out of nowhere – on the brink of divorce and in the mood for love. And not only that, you _suddenly_ suspect something, and want to discuss it and even call poor Luca. So?”

Armie looks at him flabbergasted.

“You think that I, what, _orchestrated_ all this?”

“I think your subconscious will end with us both,” Tim says shaking his head. “Tyler Durden has won and the towers are falling. The problem is – I inhabit one of them. Per my luck.”

Just give me a fucking break, will ya? Armie raises his eyes and finds… porcelain, bloody porcelain.

I won’t touch or even look at the stuff ever again _in my life_ , he fervently promises. I’ll build a wooden outhouse, surprise the neighbors.

If I get out of here, that is…

“You tried to seduce me…” he wonders aloud. “God, you’re incredible!”

“Of course, I am,” Tim shrugs. “And yes, I tried, constantly. Even went to a salon at some point, thought you’d man up eventually. And it’s painful, you know, and dangerous, too, - dozens of people walking around with a second-degree ass burn, and no one cares,” he sighs dramatically. “But of course, _now_ , when it’s all flourishing again, here you are. Again, so frustrating.”

“You… But I was married. I am… married.”

“Not for long now. Hopefully.” Tim smirks and sits on the coffee table in front of him, Indian style.

“And you’re glad, right?” Armie is furious. “You ended with my marriage, my peace of mind, my sense of self – and you are glad!” Their eyes are on the level, “ _You_ are my Tyler.”

“Then shoot yourself,” Tim returns pleasantly. “Only not here, please. I don’t want stains on the carpet.”

Armie looks at him and can’t stop looking, even now, even after all this.

His own Buddha, his own Salomé.

Offering Nirvana, asking for a head.

“You are evil incarnate,” he whispers finally.

“I am your gift from the gods,” Tim replies seriously.

“Then no wonder atheism is on the rise…” Armie growls.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and stares at the carpet - a shard of glass blinks at him, reminding about the morning.

And I thought that was bad, he muses…

When Tim’s phone starts buzzing, Armie doesn’t even react – you want him Lilly-girl, you can have him, and thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You have no idea what you’re getting into.

But amusement doesn’t last long, because what he hears from the speakers literally freezes his blood – namely, his wife’s voice saying “Timmy”.

“Lizzy!” Tim’s whole face lights up.

Sweet Mary, mother of God…

“Timmy,” Armie warns. “Timmy, give me the phone…”

He tries to grab it, but Tim springs from the table with surprising speed and dances away.

“We’re kind of busy right now, you know?” Tim is saying cheerfully. “Oh, yes, he is here.”

“Give me the fucking phone,” Armie says quietly and makes a step towards him, but Tim just backs away.

“Tired,” Tim smiles, “but he’ll recover. Fifteen minutes and he is good to go. Still not past his prime…”

Armie stops.

He probably wants to move, just doesn’t know how.

Tim frowns and looks at his phone, beeping now, then at Armie, “Yep, now you are divorced. For sure,” he nods. “But at least your bedroom reputation is restored.”

Armie just stares. Just stares.

It only seems like a slow-mo, in real life these things happen swiftly – the truck full of bricks hits you, the war starts, you lose your mind… All swiftly.

“I will kill you,” Armie announces serenely.

“Be grateful – I liberated you.”

“Oh, I’ll show you how grateful I am,” he says, recovering his mobility.

Something must give him away, because Tim stops smiling and cocks his head, his brow furrows. “Don’t overreact.”

“Come here, sweetheart. Come to papa,” he makes another step.

Tim licks his lips, starts to move back. They circle the couch, Tim retreating towards the window.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

Armie breathes deeper.

“Be reasonable, baby,” Tim tries. “Give diplomacy a chance.”

When there is no reaction and the movement continues, he tries again, “You can still fix it. She’ll list…”

Armie pounces.

Tim sees the movement in time and rushes toward the coffee table, on the other side of the couch, jumps over it and lands on the other side, leaving Armie grabbing empty air.

“Reminds…” Tim is breathing heavily, “reminds of Italy. Still too slow, old man.”

“Wasn’t slow… when I dumped you into that pond.”

Tim’s nostrils flare, “Ruined my Gucci!”

Armie starts advancing again, “And who wears Gucci in the countryside, you idiot?”

Passing the coffee table, he kicks it with gusto and sends it flying with all the debris, collected there over the day – takeout leftovers, yesterday’s weed, glasses, some magazines scatter on the floor.

Oh, yeah, baby, let’s party as if there is no tomorrow. For us it’s probably true.

Tim glances at the table and starts assessing the ways of retreat. There are three – bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. His eyes move to the bedroom, but Armie catches it and just shakes his head, smiling again.

Tim retreats more. Bathroom is tempting, but Armie can grab him in midflight.

Kitchen it is, they both understand simultaneously.

And now, sunshine, you’ll know all about being trapped.

Armie glances at Tim’s jeans and smiles broadly. Winks.

“No!” Tim cries.

“Oh, yes…”

Tim turns around and darts to the kitchen, with Armie not far behind. They face over the kitchen island.

“Still… slow…” Tim gulps

Armie only smiles again, “And the shirt? Prada? Let’s introduce it to Tide.”

Incensed, Tim grabs one of the apples left on the table since morning and throws it, but Armie quickly leans to the side, so it flies past him and crashes into a ceramic fish standing on the shelf of a room partition. It falls down and breaks loudly.

Armie turns to look at it, smirking…

“What a p…”

Another apple smashes square into his nose bridge, and Armie freezes with his mouth open. Tim’s eyes grow huuuuge.

Oh, my beautiful, beautiful boy…

Armie wipes his eyes slowly, licks his fingers. “Now you’ll eat this Tide, too,” he promises.

Tim surveys the kitchen island in panic, but the last apple is closer to Armie. Only a coffee pot is left. Armie follows his eyes.

“You can’t even lift it, grasshopper.”

Tim turns behind looking for something left in the sink and at that moment Armie makes his move. Tim barely manages to avoid him, runs out of the kitchen and sprints to the bathroom. Though even with his speed and quick reflexes, the only thing that saves him ultimately is Armie slipping on the shards of the damn fish, falling down and grinding it into dust.

Limping down the hallway, Armie hears the click of the locked door. “Right,” he murmurs, “as if it can help you now…”

Behind the door is complete silence. Armie knocks out of politeness, “Open up, sweetie,” he says all saccharine.

“No!”

“It’s plywood, baby. One kick and I’m in.”

“No!!”

And of course, because the hallways of hell are narrow, - it’s New York, you know, - he can’t even swing properly.

“Well, fuck… alright… here’s Armie…” he swears and crushes his whole trunk into the door.

It holds.

It holds?

Maybe, diplomacy, after all? No, fuck diplomacy. Never worked anyway. WWI – 20  million dead. Middle East up in flames. You wanted diplomacy, baby? Prepare to be shocked and awed.

Oh, yes, prepare.

Armie smiles again.

“Cupcake?”

“No!!!”  

“Fine…”

It’s not a trial run now – Armie takes a couple of steps back and puts the wrath of this whole day in this one assault. About 200 pounds of wrath.

And it should have worked, you know.

It should have.

The plan was solid.

If only at the last second, when the necessary momentum was achieved, there wasn’t a click – the lock being released…

Diplomacy, fucking diplomacy – always too little too late. Always.

His subsequent flight, it must be said, is glorious, meteoric, unforgettable and short – tiny apartments have tiny bathrooms, again New York. But still, on his doomed trajectory he has a second to see Tim, standing in the corner, wide-eyed, hand over mouth, to notice rows of colorful toiletries, familiar by now tiles, to recognize the pattern of the shower curtain…

And then…

Well, then, he has to grab something to catch his balance and there is nothing within reach, but this curtain…

…which, in contrast to the door, doesn’t hold…

…and which Armie on his violent descent into the bathtub rips halfway from the cornice…

…and half the cornice from the wall…

The end.

C’est fini.

The shower curtain falls, gently covering most of his body, leaving out protruding legs.

Dry concrete wafts in the air, rows of shampoos and conditioners tremble slightly, tiles blink back tears. It’s all almost poetic, almost Waterloo in its grandeur and sadness. Only half-French are winning, for a change.  

Tim opens his mouth, closes it, opens again.

One of the legs twitches.

“Armie…”

He cautiously approaches, lightly touches the knee, then slowly lifts up the curtain. Armie looks dazed. Harmless.

“Can… can you move?” Tim leans closer

Blue eyes, holding back the pain, slowly open and find him. Blue eyes concentrate.

“You bet I can…”

“Wh…”

Yeah…

Tim fights, of course, loses, of course. It’s dangerous world out there and it’s rarely fair - smaller animals have always been at the bottom of the food chain, and so Tim ends up at the bottom of the tub.

Armie hovers over him, face red, hair in disarray, eyes sparkling, nostrils flared.

Tim is looking up and breathing heavily, then “I love you… I love you… I love you… I love you _so much_!” his voice is trembling.

And you’ve said it yourself, Hammer, that your war was lost long ago. It turns out, occasionally you can be right.

You can’t even drown him now, your kitten, - the tub was empty.  

“Oh hell… oh fucking hell…”

Tim raises his hand and strokes his cheek gently, “Just… come here… just… yes, on your side… and my legs… just… your head here…” He says and helps Armie lie down sideways in a fetal position, with his own legs on top. They fit in somehow, but given enough exhaustion and motivation we all might.

Armie’s head finds a place on Tim’s shoulder and he closes his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning incessantly. Everything hurts. By now everything hurts. Shoulder, brain, self-esteem – everything.

“Only don’t fall asleep,” Tim whispers and kisses his forehead, “in case it’s a concussion.”

“It’s not concussion,” Armie mumbles, “it’s _you_ …”

“It’s ok, baby. It’s ok. It will be ok.”

“I don’t care anymore…”

Tim strokes his hair, kisses him again. “Liz can have another husband, I can’t have another you.”

“I’m too old for you…”

“Sometimes,” Tim smiles.

“Too dull…”

“Oh, never.”

“Too straight…”

“Only when sober.”

“God, this apartment is hell,” Armie moans quietly. “It’s too small. This tub is too small. New York is too loud. And too cold. And no beaches. And traffic jams.”

Tim sighs, “Yes.”

“And you’re too pretty. And flirty. You flirt with _everyone_. And I’m jealous. You’ll end up cheating and I’ll kill him. And you. And myself. Hell… That… that what you want?”

“Not _exactly._ And I’m not flirty, I’m just likable. People like me…” Tim murmurs soothingly.

“Too much and too bloody often.”

“…if you were a bit more approachable, they would like you too.”

“I’m _very_ approachable,” Armie opens one eye.

“You even say it like a threat.”

“Many people like me…”

“ _Luca_ isn’t people.”

“Nick”

“You employ him, baby.”

“Anyway, my kids adore me,” he mutters.

“This sounds very sad, if you think about it,” Tim sighs and leans closer, kisses his nose, smiling. “You smell of apples.”

“Stop. Licking. My. Face.”

“But look how perf…”

And the rest of the cornice finally collapses.

 

<> 

Shards crunch, when he limps back to the living room. It’s amazing, how a little creative destruction can transform a place. Overturned table salute the ceiling, broken glass makes the carpet sparkle in places, shade from a morning lamp lies in the corner, like something the sea brought in the aftermath of the storm.

And contrasting with light floor there are the keys, another piece of a broken ship washed ashore. In this light they look like a dark spider frozen in wait.

“I, um… I can pay for… the fish. I guess,” Armie says distractedly.

“I hated it, don’t bother.”

Tim follows his eyes and finds the keys, too.

“So, you’re leaving.”

Armie doesn’t reply. In the morning these words made him feel guilty, but now it’s all sadness, deep and dark. And probably pain, though he won’t think about it now. Not much is left and what strength he has, he needs to use to reach that threshold.

“I meant it, you know,” Tim says quietly. “I don’t think… I can’t go back to the way it was. I can’t be “friends” anymore. Don’t want to.”

Armie nods.

“But still you’re leaving.”

There is only one thing left to hide behind, and he isn’t proud to use it, but time for options is out.

“My son is two, Tim,” he says quietly, trying not to sound tragic. It’s not a tragedy, he adores his son, he would never wish for a world where this precious child didn’t exist.

He glances at Tim and wants to explain it more, to show him why. But one look at Tim’s face is enough to see that there are no explanations and excuses needed. Not anymore.

“Need me to call a taxi?” Tim asks

“No. Timmy, look, whatever happened, whatever happens…” Armie tries.

“Armie, just… I really, really don’t want to talk any more. Let’s not prolong the agony.”

Yes, enough was said already. And he is still leaving. What is there to add?

He goes to pick up the keys, spots his coat nearby, finds his phone among the wreckage on the floor and stops, uncertain. Suddenly, counterintuitively he wants Tim to fight more, to say something else, to give him a final reason not to go to that door. But Tim for the first time today is silent.

“Timmy…”

Tim looks at him and waits, but Armie doesn’t know what to say. He probably spoke only to see those green eyes once more.

Tim understands and smiles sadly.

At the door Armie turns once again and sees him kneeling on the floor, looking at the shards in his hands.

The image haunts him all the way to the airport.

 

<> 

When he is told, that there are no direct flights to LAX in the next three hours, Armie doesn’t care. He needs to get out of here right now, he’ll take whatever they can give him. Via Detroit? Fine.

About two hours to get there, an hour of waiting and by four a.m. he is home. And everything is saved, and everything is broken.

He regrets nothing.

He regrets everything.

From the moment he said yes to Luca.

From the moment he entered that room and saw a pale boy at the piano.

Crema, New York, Berlin, Toronto, Paris…

Soft curls and softer eyes, Cavani and cianti, Nouvelle Vague and vague realizations, too much vodka and not enough courage, dark corridors of the heart rediscovered and sealed anew, and _beauty is horror_ , and _love is a sentence_ , and _with you I’m feeling young again_ , and falling, falling, falling so hard and fast, blindingly and dazzlingly, as if for the first time…

Nothing and everything.

In Detroit he has it easy for the first time this day. No one recognizes him, thank God, but then, looking in the mirror in a stinky bathroom, he doesn’t recognize himself either. Not because he is exhausted and bulletproof Californian shine has dimmed a little, but because people you lose leave scars and his face is an ugly one.

Look at you, Hammer – midnight, midlife, Midwest – ruin in front of you, ruin behind. You’re such a cliché, from your looks to your fears, such a mediocrity, that when something extraordinary appears in your life, you fight it with all the weapons available, spare no one.

Well, you’ve won, sweetheart, - not the war, obviously, but the records that will be kept about it. And those records will be good, don’t worry, - they will call you a hero and you’ll have your statues, and one of them might even be golden.

Only, if it’s difficult to move and breathe right now, don’t act so surprised – it’s the rust, growing slowly over your shiny surfaces, covering your pores and even dulling your sparkling eyes.

You reached your Detroit, what did you expect? 

 

<> 

He remembers what Luca told him once, Luca who always knew and, Tim admits now, felt sorry: it can go either way – you gain a lover or you lose a friend. Well, Luca underestimated him – between two evils, Tim would always get the third worst.

No lover.

No friend.

Maybe an Oscar, maybe a franchise, definitely a mountain of cash. No Armie.

“You’ll have one shot with him,” Luca again. “So aim carefully.”

Right. The problem it turns out is that little Timmy here is no archer and will miss an elephant at three feet. And though you won the world, you lost something irreplaceable on the way there. And the quiver is now empty. And the crowd is scratching their heads. And all sorries are always useless. And, and, and…

And nothing.

Grow a pair.

He loves you beyond words, just not enough. Just like Lourdes. Just like you yourself with so many others over the years - beyond words and not enough.  

You’ll recover, of course. Tomorrow is another day and all that shit. You’ll do what you’ve always done – smile awkwardly and shrug, flitter from place to place, gaining friends and changing disguises, thinking in French, dreaming in Italian, but lying in Queen’s English, because it comes more naturally.

And the future isn’t a burden, it just seems that way tonight. You have New York, you have Lilly, you have countless mornings, days and nights in front of you, and when you are his age you’ll probably understand him.

You are older today.

You shot and missed, it happens. One day it happens to everyone, this one was yours.

He should probably call someone now and start the pity-party, it will help. Call Pauline, maybe. But then he looks around at the wreckage and knows that he won’t be able to explain it even to her. He still doesn’t understand it himself.

How can you love someone so much and still lose him? How can it be that you offer everything and your everything just isn’t enough? How comes, that you open your ribcage and bleed all over the floor, and the result is this empty silence?

And most importantly, how can you be such a fuck-up, Timothée? Such a worthless loser?

Behind one of these question, sweetie, is the story of your life, look closely.

He notices a bottle of absinth that miraculously survived the day’s events and smiles resignedly – no, he won’t call anyone today, he is a big boy now and he’ll resolve his problems like a grown up.

They opened that absinth together, he’ll finish it alone. And ain’t it symbolic?


	5. …And Morning

It starts with a bang. It has to. It’s that kind of story, that kind of love.

Armie’s kids trained him to wake up fast and prepared, so when he hears that bang, it doesn’t take him long to return to full alertness and scan the perimeter. His eyes capture the photos on the wall, the closet door, his own clothes neatly folded on the chair, bedside lamp slowly rocking on the floor and finally stop on one wide-eyed Tim Chalamet, picking at him over the side of the bed, blinking and wiping his eyes repeatedly.

“This is hell,” Tim whispers looking at him.

“Yeah, morning to you too,” Armie replies and plops back.

No threat here, but, damn, does it have to be so early? He is not a morning person at heart, more a noon person, and it’s about 9 right now, judging by the light. Too bright, too stressful. Mornings are too stressful for southern belles with gentle disposition.

“You don’t… it’s happening again,” Tim says with panic in his voice.

Armie turns to him lazily.

“What is?”

“This day. It’s…” Tim looks around fearfully. “I know what will happen today. It’s happened already, all of it. And now it’s happening again.”

“Really?” Armie smiles.

“Yes, yes. We’ll wake up… well, we are, but no matter, and we’ll have coffee, and we’ll fight about… And then you’ll break the lamp, and my shower cornice and… my fish. And you’ll leave…” Tim bites his lip. “It’s Groundhog day.”

“Isn’t it, like, in March or February?”

“The principle of it. We are stuck. We are stuck in that horrible Tuesday. And it’s my fault,” Tim looks heartbroken.

“Why?”

“I wished it!” Tim cries. “Yesterday… today, after you left, when you leave… when you left yesterday which is today, I made a wish – I wanted to have this day again, to have another chance…” He shakes his head in despair. “We are stuck. It’s my fault.”

“Ah, I get it…” Armie smiles again.

“But that’s fucking horrible! Don’t you see? Like the worst. Even if I jump from this window, I’ll wake up again, and it will be this fucking Tuesday again.”

“Tim…”

“We are cursed, I’m fucking cursed!” Tim looks at him for consolation and doesn’t find a lot of it apparently. “You don’t believe me? Oh, you don’t believe!”

He springs up and rushes to the door, opens it widely and points, “Now look here, you broke my lamp, the other day, but now it’s… it’s…”

“Yeah, it’s Wednesday,” Armie yawns and stretches.

Tim turns around and looks at him, by now even more confused.

“Wednesday…” he sounds lost

“Aha,” Armie yawns again.

“But… how?”

“Happens after Tuesdays usually. There is a pattern.”

“But you are…” Tim motions to him uncertainly

“Back.”

“It’s not possible,” Tim says firmly, sounding like an astronomer who’s just been told that the Earth is flat after all.

“And yet here I am.”

“You mean… What do you mean? Back how? When? Back… Like… _back_?”

Armie nods.

“Why?”

A million dollar question, that.

“I just don’t know how to quit you, sugar,” Armie sighs. “Like herpes.”

“It’s incurable…”

“Oh, it is, it turns out,” Armie smiles sadly. “It is.”

“But… how did you even get in?”

“You threw out the keys, Rapunzel. They were still there when I looked. Right under the Maserati with a broken windshield,” Armie nods towards the window and chuckles. “Good aim, by the way, I salute you.”

In such delicate situations it’s very useful to have Tim’s face in front of you. All registers and is displayed – incredulity, doubt, pain, worry, hope, realization, doubt again, then finally, “You are back! You came back!” he smiles broadly and his whole face lights up.

“Easy, easy. I came back, yes,” Armie fluffs the pillow and gets comfortable. “But there are conditions.”

“Conditions?” Tim frowns.

Armie thinks for a second, glances at Tim, standing there in his underwear, hair in disarray, looking confused, euphoric and apprehensive at once, and…

Oh, I missed you dreadfully, sweetheart, he thinks. You have no idea. You have no idea what the words “buyer’s remorse” really mean. I’ll show you in a minute, darling.

Some of this is probably reflected on his face, because Tim, intuitive as he is, catches up and his eyes grow even bigger.

Ah, my little baby squirrel…

My piece of nitrogen fluff…

“One,” Armie begins, “we are moving out of this dump. It’s too small for me and if I ever see this damn ceiling of yours again, I might actually get violent. Also I miss island life, so it’s Manhattan for us, baby, Upper West.” He nods, “And you are paying, because all my finances will be tied up in divorce proceedings for the foreseeable future. But if you can’t afford it, take a mortgage, live a little.

“Two, my dog comes with me. That’s non-negotiable. Even your sweet ass won’t separate us. So stock up on antiallergics and give a heads-up to your mom. If she put up with your craziness for so long, she can get along with my terrier, too.

“Three, we’re not out for the next nine months. Six for my divorce and three – as a courtesy to Liz. God knows, this woman deserves more from me, but life is rarely fair, as you can see by now.

“Four, my family money will probably be cut off and the stake in the bakeries will go, too. Which is as it should be – Liz has been doing it from the ground up. And as for me, given the potential proximity to Broadway, I think it’s a crime to let the opportunity go. All of which basically means that you’ll be supporting us, you’re the breadwinner. And the dough better be good, obviously. So sign up for your Dune sequels and call your manager, saying you are all ripe for some leotards or Gotham skies. Just don’t blow it this time,” he shakes his finger for emphasis.

“Five, darling Lily will have to pack her bags and fuck off without delay. How you achieve it is up to you, but try to be diplomatic, so that Papa Depp won’t try to garrote you in a fit of parental outrage. I don’t want you damaged. Your neck, _especially_.

“Six, or what is it, seven now? Doesn’t matter. Six, you get your ass to a firing range and learn how to shoot. And we need good marksmanship soon. No bitching. Because my folks will get over assfuckery in a couple of decades, but guns are sacred in those parts. And I don’t want you embarrassing me on family outings.

“Seven, you have to hire security. That’s important. Because my father-in-law is into Bible too, only not the Jesus part, the prequel. Adultery, delilahs, jezebels – won’t fly. So it will be very difficult for him not to hire someone to break your legs, or something. And as head of the household, we simply can’t afford you hospitalized.

“Eight, at some point I might make an honorable man out of you and marry you, but for now we’ll live in sin. If your father has a problem with this he can meet me at dawn somewhere and we’ll resolve it with a suitable amount of bloodshed.” He pauses, “On the other hand, if I can’t put a ring on your finger, I’ll put it somewhere else. You can even choose the brand.

“Nine, you go back to that salon you were frequenting and doll up yourself anew, because that will come in handy pretty soon.

“And ten”, he pauses, looks at Tim compassionately, “this will be tough, gird your loins. Not so much a condition, but in spirit of full disclosure… I’m a Republican it so happens. And if it leaks, your career is ruined too, unfortunately.

“Well, what else?” he thinks some more. “No, I think that’s all. P.S. I love you, I guess.”

Tim blinks.

Armie starts studying the wrinkles on the blanket.

Hello, my name is Armie, and I have so much baggage, you’ll need a freight train or a snow shovel, but I can cook. I can cook while you’re shoveling…

“I accept,” he hears.

“What?” Armie sits straighter.

“I accept.”

“Everything?” he asks in disbelief.

“Everything.”

“You need to think, that’s hasty…”

“I don’t need to think. When did you return?” Tim asks without missing a beat.

“I… well, around half past five, something like…”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You were sleeping.”

“Thank you, Einstein. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I thought… well, a surprise…” Armie shrugs, uncertain.

“Surprise? Armie, I almost jumped out of my skin when I woke up and saw you there!” Tim starts pacing at the foot of the bed.

“Well – surprise…”

“It was an ambush!” Tim screams.

“No!”

“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and snuck into my bed!”

“I didn’t! I had the key! I brought croissants!”

“Croi… Oh, you broke in with croissants! _Of course_ , because that’s what normal people do!”

“I don’t know what _normal_ people do, and I don’t care. There is no one here, matching the description, anyway. And you should be grateful, in any case, – who knows who could find those keys instead. I probably saved you from something horrible!”

“Except yourself!”

“I didn’t even look at you! Didn’t touch you with a finger! What’s the matter with you?”

“Did she kick you out?” Tim demands suddenly.

“Who?”

“Liz!”

“I didn’t try to get in!”

That stops Tim in his pacing, makes him look at Armie intently. “Look at me and swear to God that it’s true.”

“I’m agnostic.”

“On your fucking terrier then!”

“I swear, damn it, I swear. Happy?”

“No, you’re a creep!”

“And you’re a hysteric!”

All this screaming exhausts Armie even more, in addition to half the night spent on the planes, in taxis, bathrooms and self-loathing sessions. The only consolation now is that, when you raise your eyes in this room, smooth oak panels greet you. There is at least that. Well, and the “I accept” part.

Tim looks at him for some time, frowning, then probably comes to a decision and starts crawling over the bed.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks suspiciously.

“Crawling to you. As usual,” Tim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop. When he reaches Armie, he doesn’t hesitate and straddles him, throwing the blanket over his shoulders and then putting his arms around Armie’s neck, covering them both.

“What is it now? Some shamanic ritual?”

“No,” Tim looks at him for a long moment, “it’s – if you didn’t come back, I think I would die. That kind of thing,” and hugs him.

And, yes, these things usually happen swiftly, too - one second you’re an agnostic, now you believe in souls. Out of nowhere, he snuggles up to you, clings to you, so delicate, fragile, dear and yours, yours, yours, and you think – I have a soul, I know it now, know how it feels like and that it’s unalienable.

Mine.

And because it’s you, and it’s he, and love is strange, all bittersweet, all turquoise, and often comes in stages, - this acceptance comes last, but also, in spite of everything, proves to be the easiest.

So Armie hugs him back and holds impossibly close, kissing Tim’s shoulder, migrating slowly to his neck, thinking how incredible it is that now he can do it whenever he wants, thinking he should have done it a long time ago, thinking _if I didn’t come back, I would die too._

“Oh, yes, here too, please, and here,” Tim purrs and bares his throat, all cat-like. “Just… no surprises for a while. Ok?”

“It was romantic,” Armie mumbles. “In a way.”

“Armie,” Tim sounds tired, “don’t use the words you don’t understand.”

“Aha, and you do…” but kissing continues.

“Well, ok, maybe, but… oh, yes, yes, yes… but from now on – boring… mundane… trivial… normal… Just, you know, a couple of… of… of…”

“Superstars?”

“Folks…”

“Folks? You?” Armie leans back and looks at him. “You need deep disguise to pass for ‘folks’ on your _worst_ day.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” Tim kisses his nose and sighs. “And your speech was good, by the way.”

“Yes?” Armie smiles.

They are so nice these quiet moments, all these mumblings and whispers and kisses, something that can make even 9am bearable.

Your kitten, how gentle he can be when he wants to.

“Yes. As far as proposals go – that was creative,” Tim purrs again.

Oh, fuck…

“Pr-proposals?”

“Yes, point eight. I remember,” Tim nods.

“Timmy… Timmy, baby,” Armie starts diplomatically, “point eight said – some day in the future, meaning way down the road, _way down_ …”

“It implied nine months!”

Yeah, quiet moments and all…

“Nine months to make it sort of official,” Armie tries to reason.

“The minister will make it sort of official!”

“I’m not even divorced yet, Christ!”

“Excuses, Armie, excuses!”

“Tim, forget it, I’m telling you…”

“Now, look here, my friend,” Tim says, arms now folded across his chest, “if you think I’m another Liz, I’ll disabuse you of that notion pretty soon. If you think that I will just let you prance around unbridled, after three years it took me to nail your ass down, that’s an _egregious_ miscalculation on your part. I’m a man, too, I know how the species think. You’re not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.”

“Hell, if you know how men think, you know that marriage won’t guarantee you anything!”

“Marriage will guarantee me another ten years, before you start looking around,” Tim returns. “And in another ten, I’ll drag you back to some cathedral to repeat the vows!”

“It’s incredible, I can’t believe it…”

“You better.”

“I won’t marry you in nine months, forget it…”

“Oh, you’re so mistaken about this. So mistaken. Nine months is about three hundred days. If you think, I won’t get a yes from you in that time, then it’s still Tuesday.”

“I won’t marry you…” Armie says and sounds unsure even to his own ears.

“Oh, please…” Tim rolls his eyes and shifts in such a way, that these three hundred days (and nights in particular) suddenly seem like an ocean of time and, Tim’s eyes add, lifeboats are limited.

Your kitten, he knows very well what he is doing. He is all below the belt guy. Catch up.

“You’re all prickly again…” Tim smiles softly and strokes his cheek.

Catch up. Don’t slow down on icy corners.

“Two days without shaving,” Armie rubs his stubble. “Do you have a razor?”

“Don’t get sassy with me, don’t you even try!”

“What? I wasn’t trying anyth…”

“I _have_ a razor. What I don’t have is a pacifier,” Tim huffs. “Unless you’re into that sort of stuff…”

“What sort of?.. Oh!” Armie is horrified. “No! I have two little kids, Jesus!”

“And?”

“And… It’s just… No! No pacifiers.”

“Fine.” Tim considers, “But you’re into dogs somehow.”

“Dogs?” Armie frowns.

“Yeah, what you said before – that when you’re drunk enough… and even today, when you were talking…”

“I am not into dogs!” Armie interrupts. “In any way. It was a… a metaphor.”

“A metaphor? Another one?” Tim stares, but Armie doesn’t give up. “Ok, ok, no dogs, but options are there…”

“I am not into any _thing_. I’m a human type. To the core. Trust me.”

“Fine, fine…”

Yes, some things are non-negotiable. Sacred even. 

“What options?” Armie asks and really wants to die now.

“Oh, anything, everything,” Tim shrugs. “I’m against body alterations – like tattoos, scars, surgery, I don’t know, but otherwise – if collar and barking gets you going… sure…”

“No!”

“Ok.”

“Are you serious though? Like… I mean… it’s just…”

“Anything, baby, you can suggest anything. I may refuse, of course, but… I don’t even know what it must be, for me to say no.”

“Wow…”

“Mindblowing, right?” Tim winks

“I just… never thought…”

“And now you are, I feel it,” and he slightly shifts again.

“Surprising,” Armie coughs, “that’s all.”

“Do you know when I fell for you, when I knew?” Tim asks, thankfully letting this bizarre canine business go, too.

“No. When?” Armie smiles

“Third day after we met. We were sitting in that trattoria and there was this waitress, and she was _sooo_ flustered – here was this magnificent guy, Americano, and she wanted to flirt with you and didn’t know how, and in the end spilled red wine all over your white shirt. You remember?”

“Um, barely…” Armie frowns.

“Well, later, you got up and left, and you returned with a small bouquet of lilac for her. Because you knew, she would be crying in the kitchen,” Tim kisses the tip of Armie’s nose. “And then I knew.”

“Oh, well, I mean, I pitied her.”

If Armie is blushing, it’s because the heating is good here. Just that.

“No, you were kind. You didn’t have to be, but you were kind to her.”

“Well…”

“And you?” Tim asks

“I?” Armie starts thinking and realizes there is no ready answer. “When you fell from that chair, I guess,” he finally says.

“What?” Tim’s brows shot up.

“First time it crossed my mind, yes.”

“You’re joking, right? No? Seriously? When I fell… Unbelievable! Skinny jeans, suggestive smiles, dancing, crawling all over you – and nothing! But I fall from a chair and you fall in love! You’re _such_ a freak!”

Right, Armie thinks, and that from a guy who screams in the woods and considers barking as legitimate foreplay, but he is a freak. Of course!

“Well, hell, I don’t have any lilac moments,” he grumbles.

“Because _I_ don’t have any lilac moments - _I_ only have falling chairs!” Tim huffs.

“Ah, don’t be so tough on yourself…”

“And Liz?” Tim sighs

“When did I fall for Liz?” Armie asks surprised.

“No, I don’t want to hear _that_. Ever again,” Tim looks at him. “What will you do?”

“I called her from the airport, from Detroit. I’ll fly to LA tonight, we’ll talk more. It’s…” Armie pauses. “It will be fine. At some point it will be fine.”

He remembers standing there in the middle of the airport, hearing his flight announced and knowing for certain that he couldn’t board it.

It was over. Right there and then. Suddenly and absolutely.

And so he called Liz, but didn’t know how to do it – ten years of marriage and nothing left to say. _I will always love you_ , he tried, _I will always, always love you, just…_

Just differently?

Just let me go?

He simply couldn’t finish.

She was quiet too, exhausted, or reconciled, or equally out of words by now. And after several minutes of this confused silence, she finally sighed and found the only possible goodbye for best friends – _enough, Armie, fuck off and be happy._  

Fuck off and be happy – it was more than he deserved anyway.

“Is she hating me?” Tim asks presently.

“Yes, of course,” Armie shrugs

“You know, Armie,” Tim shakes his head, “that honesty thing, you can tone it down. Yesterday was enough.”

“But, I mean, how do you want her to feel? Put yourself in her place…”

“If someone went after you?” Tim frowns

“Well, yes…”

“I would cut the bitch,” Tim replies without hesitation. “Just…” his hand slashes the air in a good imitation.

Armie’s jaw drops.

“Yes, so don’t go there endangering lives and limbs. Because if something happens, that’s on you, 100%.”

“You know, I am starting to think my mom will like you fine,” Armie mumbles.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. I will go full Timmy-is-such-a-cutie - she won’t stand a chance. I promise you, nine months from now she’ll be sitting there with a hankie, drying tears, watching you getting hitched for the second and last time,” Tim declares and looks very pleased.

“For the second and last time - I won’t marry you in nine months! How many…”

“Armie, that’s already been discussed. Stop fighting reality - didn’t do you any good on your first try.”

Armie wants to object more, but decides to let sleeping dogs lie. Nine months is a long time – at some point he’ll find a way out. Or die trying. Or…

No, no way. No way in hell.

“But you brought croissants…” Tim sighs dreamily

“There was a bakery opening, when I was returning from the airport,” Armie replies, still searching for a loophole. There is one. There should be. Even the Constitution isn’t bulletproof. “With pistachio cream,” he adds absentmindedly.

“Ohhhhh… you’re wooing me… that’s so touching.”

“It’s just nuts… Ground…”

“I want everything!” Tim exclaims.

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything – chocolates, dinners, romantic getaways, notes, playlists, flowers… no, fuck flowers, they are useless… But otherwise – everything! All the sap.”

Did I promise this too? When? But more importantly…

“Why?”

Tim just stares at him.

“No, I mean, do I need to? We are like…” Armie motions to the bed.

“Armie, really, when the kids ask how you conquered daddy Timmy, you will say what? By half-fucking him while drunk? Seriously?”

“Half?..” then something clicks - icy corners, catch up. “Wait, what kids?”

“No, that’s heavy, that’s for another morning,” Tim shakes his head. “Concentrate on wooing. And I mean, concentrate. Because I’ll ask Liz later and she’ll tell me, if only out of spite. So don’t disappoint. Ok?”

“No, stop, what daddy Timmy? What kids?”

“What kids? Do you see any kids here?” Tim is so genuinely puzzled – movie critics, where are you? You’re missing a hell of a scene.

“No, b…”

“Then why are you talking about kids?”

“I was…”

“No kids. Wooing, think about that. Exert yourself.”

“No kids?”

“No kids, none. Zero. Pas d’enfants. No bambini. Entiendes?” 

“Sí, pero…”

“Mais rien du tout!” Tim exclaims exasperated. “And I want jewelry also. If I buy you an apartment and go through this Brazilian hell again, I want jewelry. As part of wooing. Jewels for my jewels, so to speak. Non-negotiable.”

“I think… I think my blood pressure’s just jumped,” Armie croaks.

”Oh, is that a problem with you?” Tim’s voice is all concern now.

“Not until this morning…”

“We should take care of you. My grandma has a good healthcare plan.”

Armie stares, but staring doesn’t work with shameless people, he realizes. It just ricochets.

“Tim, stop talking.”

“I read Viagra is included.”

“In your grandma’s plan?” Armie gives up.

“No, but like in Medicare or Medicaid, or whatever. Just saying.”

“Just stop.”

“But, really, if… I mean, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I get it. Honestly.”

Fuck. You, people, who say that a young lover is an ego boost, you try it, assholes.

“You know, I thought I had half of my life in front of me - now, with you, I’m not sure I’ll get to my forties,” Armie confesses.

“Planning an easy escape, Hammer?” Tim smiles. “No, you’re here for a long haul. We’ll get to your forties, and your fifties, and your sixties and so on.” He pauses and his voice becomes softer. “And we’ll see your kids through college, and we’ll see their kids. And one day you’ll look back and say – that was a good life, fucked-up in places, but good overall. And I will be there still. And we’ll still be bickering about nonsense, and you’ll still do crazy stuff and think it’s romantic, and I’ll still have a grudge over Napoleon.” Tim leans closer to Armie, their noses touching, and takes his face in his hands.

“And one day you’ll forgive yourself for what happened yesterday, and for what’s been happening these three years. For falling in love when you weren’t supposed to… with whom you weren’t supposed to… for handling it terribly… One day you’ll forgive yourself for coming back to me.”

Two fat tears fall on Armie’s cheeks.

“And one day I’ll forgive myself for all those things, too,” Tim finishes barely audibly.

It breaks Armie into a million pieces - this gentle voice, this gentle grief. And he wants to say – forgive me, for I can’t give you anything, only problems, and you deserve better, you deserve all the love in this world, you don’t need the troubles that will come with me and will surely bring even more grief and pain. And we can joke all we want, but there is so much and so many I can’t protect you from, that I won’t be able to protect you from…

Though, if you know so much, you know this, too.

So forgive me and thank you.

“I don’t regret coming back, Timmy,” he says and his throat hurts terribly. “I’m just… I’m just so scared right now. So, so scared, to be honest.”

“I’m scared too.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am,” Tim laughs shakily, wiping the tears. “I’m scared of everything – from spiders in the shower to your mom. Everything. And… and I’m superstitious. I’m a total wuss. Need prince charming at every step.”

Armie smiles. “You were going to dazzle my mom.”

“And I will,” Tim blinks rapidly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not scared.”

“Oh, darling, we’ll be ok somehow,” Armie starts kissing his face all over. “I don’t know how right now, but we’ll be ok. I can’t promise you anything, because there is so much craziness ahead… But… but we’ll be ok. Somehow.”

“Yes, of course - I’ll learn how to shoot, and we’ll be ok,” Tim nods and smiles gently.

“My fierce Bambi…” 

“No, yes, we’ll be ok,” Tim inhales noisily and then smirks, “and we’ll have _a lot_ of sex.”

Armie blinks.

Normal people, generally, go from A to B, with Tim it can be from A to kangaroo, it seems like.

“A lot,” Tim stares at him.

“Well, yes, some…”

“Not some – _a lot_.”

“Stop saying it like that…”

“What? How much sex we’ll have?”

“Yes, stop.”

“Why? You’re in bed with your young lover - what is there to talk about?”

“You’re not… We’re not lovers… Still.”

“You promised to remedy it pretty soon, too. Point 9 on your list.”

This fucking thing will haunt me to my grave…

“Well… But how do you even remember it, point by point? I didn’t think you were even listening! And that list, I actually came up with it on my… on… back from Detroit, on a plane. I was so mad at you, and everything. And… Anyway, let’s solve first 8, then we’ll come to the… to that… to… to 9.”

“You’re blushing, you know it?” Tim smiles. 

“I’m 33, I don’t blush! Well, you just… you’re looking at me like… I don’t know how… Stop looking at me like… I don’t blush!”

“I _love_ it when you do it,” Tim leans closer again, his voice an octave lower, smoky, sultry, eyes still moist but velvety, each word drawn out. “I’ll make you blush _a lot_. Often. Repeatedly. Hard. In every city, on every surface…”

“Tim, stop. Get a grip.”

“Of what?”

“Jesus… Let’s go make coffee and… Enough! Let’s… let’s just get up!” Armie practically throws Tim off, trying to disentangle himself, and decisively marches out of the room.

Tim follows him with his eyes and smiles. “Oh, my little red riding hood, you have no idea what kind of fairytale it is. Still,” he whispers.

And November sun falls into those eyes, breaks into a million pieces and makes them sparkle.

All mischief, all love, all green.

 

<> 

Later that day, returning from a pleasant evening in Théâtre Ranelagh, Luca Guadagnino reluctantly switches on his phone, half hoping, that those investors changed their mind after all. 

They didn’t - no surprise here. But it doesn’t mean that his voicemail is empty.

“Oh, ragazzo, what now?” he mumbles and decides that a glass of cabernet will make listening to it more palatable.

It’s true, we all have a cross to bear, but not everyone has it 6 ft. 5 in. and 200 lbs., Luca muses while opening the bottle. And even worse in decimal…

“Luca, where the hell are you?” he hears and rolls his eyes. “I need you to call me as soon as fucking poss…” There is a strange background noise. “Oh, hell… Oh, no… YES!” Luca almost spills his wine, because why not yell straight into the speaker, right? “YES! It fell down again! You don’t need this fucking cornice anyway! Find yourself a plumber! Ohhh, ok, Luca, it’s like… It’s an emergency, ok? I mean, it is… I don’t even know what it is now, but… it’s better and… and worse, yeah. Somehow it’s that… It’s…

“Oh, just… just call me, ok?

“Bye.

“Yeah… bye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don’t think this modest piece deserves a lengthy afterword, but if there should be any here, I’ll use it to say THANK YOU once again to everyone who read or will read this story. I’m immensely grateful to you all.   
> *  
> I might continue this with a series of one-shots, but it will take time, and I’m quite busy right now. In any case, if this brand of craziness is up your alley, there is a chance it will return.  
> *  
> And, once again, no offence was (and won’t be) meant.


End file.
